


The House of Paper Bones

by ofcorsetstrash



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:50:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6480565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofcorsetstrash/pseuds/ofcorsetstrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cadet Prestor Hux is everything he is supposed to be. Son of the Commandant Brendol Hux, with perfect scores in every class, perfect performance in battle simulations, and perfect control of everything at all times. Any outside observer would say he led the perfect life.</p><p>The only thing he doesn't have under control are the dreams. Dreams of a tall man, all in black. The man has no face, only a mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude to a Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a period of civil war.  
> Rebel spaceships, striking  
> from a hidden base, have won  
> their first victory against  
> the evil Galactic Empire.
> 
> During the battle, Rebel  
> spies managed to steal secret  
> plans to the Empire's  
> ultimate weapon, the DEATH  
> STAR, an armored space  
> station with enough power  
> to destroy an entire planet.
> 
> Pursued by the Empire's  
> sinister agents, Princess  
> Leia races home aboard her  
> starship, custodian of the  
> stolen plans that can save her  
> people and restore  
> freedom to the galaxy....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of sky.  
> My bones are made of paper  
> To better help me fly.  
> But someone found my paper bones  
> And tore them up  
> Their fingers cruel and jealous.
> 
> I don’t think I will ever fly again.

Luke found himself pulled from his daydreams by the droid’s ongoing, _endless_ chatter.

 

“Thank the maker! This oil bath is going to feel so good. I’ve got such a bad case of dust contamination, I can barely move!”

 

Luke sighed as he was snapped back to his dreary, dull reality. The garage wasn’t a very appealing place to be for long. Daydreaming was the only way Luke had found to deal with it. “It just isn’t fair,” he grumbled, mostly to himself, but somewhat glad to have the droids present. It was much more satisfying to rant when there was an audience. “Biggs is right. I’m never going to get out of here!”

 

The brass-colored protocol droid, unable to keep quiet for very long, spoke up again. “Is there anything I might do to help?”

 

Luke sighed. Again. He knew he was being over-dramatic, but it was nice to have someone, even droids, to complain to. This one even wanted to help. “Well,” he thought back over his daydreams. “Not unless you can alter time. Or speed up the harvest. Or teleport me off this rock!” He laughed a little to himself. Wouldn’t that be something?

 

The droid gave this very serious consideration. “I don’t think so, sir,” it said. It was kind of nice to be called ‘sir’. “I'm only a droid and not very knowledgeable about such things. Not on this planet, anyways. As a matter of fact, I'm not even sure which planet I'm on.”

 

Luke shook his hair back out of his eyes and got to work on the little R2 unit. “If there's a bright center of the universe, you're on the planet that it's farthest from.” Luke was kind of proud. He’d come up with that one himself.

 

“I see, sir.”

 

The droid sounded… sad. Luke didn’t really blame it. If he’d been living somewhere else and found himself on Tatooine he would be sad, too.

 

“Uh…” Luke fidgeted a bit. On second thought, being called ‘sir’ even for five minutes was starting to feel uncomfortable. “You can call me Luke.”

 

“I see, sir Luke.”

 

Luke laughed. “No… just Luke.”

 

The droid was out of the oil bath, now, and posed grandly with it’s arms in the air. Luke wondered if droids could be programmed to be dramatic. “And I am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations, and this is my counterpart, Artoo-Detoo.”

 

Luke gave a little wave to the R2 droid he was working on. He couldn’t help smiling a little, too. “Hello.”

 

Artoo-Detoo gave a friendly few beeps in response. Luke grimaced and scrubbed harder at the grime on the droid. “You got a lot of carbon scoring here. It looks like you boys have seen a lot of action.”

 

Threepio launched into another mini speech. “With all we've been through, sometimes I'm amazed we're in as good condition as we are, what with the Rebellion and all.”

 

Luke practically leapt to his feet, his eyes wide and a gasp escaping him. He whirled to face the protocol droid. “You… You know of the Rebellion against the Empire?”

 

“That's how we came to be in your service, if you take my meaning, sir.”

 

Luke didn’t really know what that was supposed to mean, so he ignored it. “Have you been in many battles?” he asked, his eyes alight. Visions of starships and daring pilots flew across his mind, their blasters cutting across the backdrop of space.

 

“Several, I think. Actually, there's not much to tell. I'm not much more than an interpreter, and not very good at telling stories. Well, not at making them interesting, anyways.”

 

Luke tried to hide the bit of disappointment the droid’s dull explanation gave him. Even the barest description of firefights would be better than nothing. Besides, with how dramatic this droid was, maybe it would turn out to be exciting anyway. Luke made himself return to his task: cleaning the R2 unit.

 

“Well, my little friend,” he mumbled to Artoo-Detoo. “You've got something jammed in here real good. Were you on a cruiser or…”

 

The fragment came loose with a _snap,_  sending Luke back on his heels as he lost his balance. There was a voice. A voice both soft and strong. A woman’s voice. And spilling out of the R2 droid, a hologram.

 

“Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

 

“What _is_ that?” Luke asked, trying to pick his jaw up off the floor.

 

Artoo beeped quietly, beneath the looping hologram.

 

“Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope. Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

 

Threepio snapped at the shorter droid “What do you _mean_ ‘what is what’? He asked you a _question_. What is that?”

 

The R2 droid managed to sound embarrassed in its whistling. Luke barely noticed. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the girl.

 

“Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope. Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope. Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

 

Threepio translated, finally. “Oh, he says it's nothing, sir. Merely a malfunction. Old data. Pay it no mind.”

 

“Who is she?” whispered Luke. There was something about this girl, even just through the hologram. He couldn’t look away from her. “She’s beautiful.” It was the best he could do to describe her, even though the word didn’t seem enough to tell what he felt.

 

_Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope._

 

Threepio hesitated. “I'm afraid I'm not quite sure, sir. I think she was a passenger on our last voyage. A person of some importance, sir… I believe. Our captain was attached to…”

 

Luke felt strange, like there was something burning inside his chest. The girl’s words were digging into him. “Is there more to this recording?”

 

The little droid let out several frantic beeps in response. Threepio laid a hand on it, as if comforting it. “Behave yourself, Artoo. You're going to get us in trouble. It's all right, you can trust him. He's our new master.”

 

Artoo seemed to think this through for a moment, and then gave a long series of whistles and beeps.

 

Threepio looked back to Luke. “He says he's the property of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a resident of these parts. And it's a private message for him. Quite frankly, sir I don't know what he's talking about. Our last master was Captain Antilles, but with what we've been through, this little R2 unit has become a bit eccentric.”

 

“Obi-Wan Kenobi?” Luke felt a little feverish. It was strange, but he hadn’t really noticed the name that the girl was saying. “You mean old Ben Kenobi?”

 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but do you know what he's talking about?”

 

“Well,” said Luke. “I’ve never heard the name Obi-Wan before, but Ben Kenobi…” He trailed off. Where a moment ago had been fever, now he felt cold. “Ah. Maybe I should…”

 

“Luke? Luke!” It was Aunt Beru. “Come to dinner!”

 

Luke tried to shake off the chill he felt. “I better go…” He looked back at the hologram, the girl trapped in her spiral. “Try to… get that shut off…”

 

“Of course, sir,” said Threepio.

 

_Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope._

 

Luke picked at his food. He could feel Aunt Beru’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t really muster up much of an appetite. The hologram was stuck in his head. And that name.

 

“Uncle Owen?” Luke said quietly. “Do you know anyone named… named Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

 

Owen and Beru went still, and Luke watched them trade something in a silent look. “Where did you hear that name?” Owen asked.

 

“I… I think that R2 unit we bought might have been stolen. It says it belongs to someone called Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Luke lifted his eyes to read Owen’s face. “Does it mean Ben?”

 

Owen’s shoulders dropped just a little bit. Beru looked away. “Yes,” Owen said. “Old Ben used to be called Obi-Wan Kenobi, a long time ago.” He cleared his throat, as if trying to swallow the situation. “We’ll, ah, have to tell the little fellow what happened.”

 

“I’ll tell it,” said Luke. “I think it’s starting to like me.” He tried rearranging the food on his plate, but it didn’t look any more tasty than it had before. “I just don’t get it,” he said, mostly to himself. “Why anyone would want to kill a harmless old man like that.”

 

Beru took a turn clearing her throat, and Luke saw her give Owen a pointed look.

 

Owen seemed to take the hint. “Have you, ah, thought about going to the Academy like you said?”

 

Luke shrugged. “I guess so.” His mind was on the girl again. She said that Obi-Wan was her only hope. That meant that she didn’t know he was dead. Luke wished he could find her, somehow. Maybe help her in whatever way she needed.

 

“I’ve been thinking,” Uncle Owen continued. “About our agreement about you staying on here another season. If these new droids work out, you might be able to transmit your application to the Academy this year.”

 

Normally, the thought would have thrilled Luke. Him, a nobody moisture farmer from a nowhere planet, going to the Imperial Academy on Arkanis, making a name for himself. Seeing sights other than the same sand and rocks day after day after day…

 

“I need to go finish cleaning those droids,” he said, pushing away his uneaten food and stepping from the room. He stood outside the door for just a moment, trying to shake off the feeling of… of _dread_ that had been eating away at him. That’s why he heard his aunt and uncle’s quiet words to each other.

 

“He has too much of his father in him.”

 

“I know. I saw it, too.”

 

Luke wandered into the room with the droids and found himself barely able to look at them.

 

“Oh! Hello, sir!” said Threepio, just as cheerful as ever. “Artoo and I managed to turn off the recording-”

 

“Thanks,” Luke said. “I have some… bad news.” He took a deep breath. “Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead.”

 

The R2 unit did nothing. Threepio lifted a hand slightly. “Oh,” it said. “Oh my… that is most dreadful…”

 

“He was living out beyond the dune sea. We called him Old Ben. Quiet, but nice. He liked to keep to himself, mostly. Two weeks ago, some Imperial troopers knocked on our door, said they were looking for Kenobi. Uncle Owen sent me out of the room, so I couldn’t hear what they said. The next morning I asked if I could go check on Old Ben and Uncle Owen said that I wasn’t allowed. A few days later I heard over at Anchorhead that they had shot him, dragged his body through town…” Luke couldn’t make any more words come out. “I… I have to go…”

 

He wasn’t thinking anymore. He didn’t care that it was getting dark, that Owen would be shutting off the power for the night. Luke got in the speeder and turned it on. It didn’t matter where he went, really, he just needed the wind. He needed to aim the speeder at the twin sunset and pretend he was somewhere else for a little while. Maybe the sky could erase the words in his head if he went fast enough.

 

_Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope._

_Help me. You're my only hope._

 

_Help. You're my only._

 

Anchorhead was quiet, almost all the lights dark in the dusk. But there was one little bulb still burning, and standing just out of it was a handsome young man in clothes far too nice for a tiny settlement in the desert. He was leaning against the wall, smoking something as he watched Luke nearly run the speeder into a shed.

 

“Thought you were a better pilot than that, Luke!” He called out.

 

“Biggs!” Luke nearly managed a smile at his old friend. “I didn’t know you were here!”

 

Biggs grinned and shrugged. “The Academy has all sorts of holidays, it seems.”

 

Luke climbed down from the speeder, eager to talk to Biggs. Surely he would have some crazy stories from the Academy to fill his head with.

 

But as Luke walked up to him, Biggs frowned. “Hey, what’s wrong? You look… not good.”

 

Luke tried to shrug, but it seemed to get stuck. “It’s been a strange day,” he admitted.

 

Biggs slung an arm around Luke. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

A sigh escaped Luke. “Not really?” he said. But he heard himself keep talking anyway. “My uncle bought some new droids to help with the farm and one of them… well…” Luke looked up into Biggs’ face. “It had a message on it, a recording. It was a girl, asking someone named Obi-Wan Kenobi for help. I think… I don’t know what I think, but old Ben Kenobi is never going to get that message. The Empire had him executed last week.”

 

Biggs was quiet for a minute. Even this close, Luke couldn’t read his face in the gathering dark. “Woah,” he finally said, his voice quiet. “That’s… that’s pretty awful. No wonder you look so bad. Why would the Empire execute an old man?”

 

Luke shrugged away from Biggs a little ways. “You tell me. You’re the one going to the Imperial Academy.”

 

Biggs shook his head, looking slightly dazed. “It just doesn’t…” He looked back at Luke and seemed to come to a decision. “Hey, hot shot, there’s an extra cot in the old shed. It’s way too dark to head back to the farm, now. Not with the Sandpeople out and about. Crash here for the night?”

 

“Sure,” said Luke. He still felt wrong. Something was really _wrong_ and he couldn’t figure out what it was.

 

Biggs smiled. “Good. You don’t look fit to drive, anyway. I might… see what I can find out about this whole mess, alright?”

 

Luke nodded, and let Biggs lead him over to the dust-colored shed. Everything was dust-colored.

 

The cot wasn’t really comfortable, but much to his surprise Luke found himself falling asleep quickly. He must have been more tired than he thought…

 

_Luke?_

 

_Luke!_

 

_Luke opened his eyes. He was standing in a long, wide hallway. The ceiling was tall and arched, and large windows opened on one side to look out over a garden. Luke couldn’t help but stare. He had never seen so much green in all his life._

 

_“Are you alright?”_

 

_Luke looked back at the man who was talking to him. A young man, not really much more than a boy. He had dark hair and dark eyes, a bold nose and slightly awkward features that hopefully one day he would grow into. His expression was careful, controlled, but there was no hiding all that fire in his eyes._

 

_“Sorry,” said Luke. What had he been doing? “I was just… daydreaming, I guess.”_

 

_The young man smiled at him. Luke felt his heart leap. He hardly ever smiled. “Just don’t start daydreaming like that again, alright? You frightened me for a minute there.”_

 

_Luke smiled in return. “Sorry, Ben. It won’t happen again.”_

 

_The name burned. It burned his tongue and his mind._

 

_Help me. You're my only hope._

 

_The young man was staring at him again, his smile gone._

 

_“What is it?” Luke asked._

 

_“It’s just… no one calls me Ben anymore.”_

 

A sound woke Luke, pulling him out of that green dream. There was movement just outside the door, so he stuck his head out to see what was going on. He saw stars.

 

Then the splitting pain in his head came. He’d never been hit so hard before, not in the play-fights with Biggs, not when he knocked his head that one time racing the-

 

His legs were knocked out from under him, and the muzzle of a blaster shoved in his face.

 

“This is the one? The traitor?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him. That’s Luke.”

 

Luke’s eyes searched frantically. “Biggs?” His voiced cracked around the name. He was shaking, his heart pounding. He’d never been so afraid in his life. “Biggs, what’s going on?”

 

White armor, pale in the grey dawn light. But between the armor, Luke found Biggs, his face a little sad as he looked down at Luke. “Sorry, hot shot.”

 

Luke couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see anymore. There were hands pulling on his arms, holding him still, holding him up. “Biggs? Wh-why? Why did you…?”

 

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t say the words. That would be admitting that this was really happening. It didn’t matter anyway. Biggs just shrugged.

 

“Oh… it’s complicated. I wouldn’t expect an orphan nobody from nowhere to understand.”

 

“Biggs…”

 

But the troopers were dragging him away, away from Biggs, away from Anchorhead, away from the desert, away from Tatooine…

 

Away from home…

 

Away from Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru and the droids…

 

Biggs knew about the droids. Luke had told him everything. They would go to the farm, next. If they hadn’t already.

 

Bound, still, a prisoner, in shock. Luke was powerless. Faceless men in white tore him away from everything.

  
Luke felt the green dream fade away with the world he had known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little one who walks in the sky,  
> I have found your paper bones.  
> I will mend them with careful touches  
> And build a house of them.


	2. Don't Start The War Without Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Cadet Prestor Hux.
> 
> Not including his nightmares and daydreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of secrets  
> I am well acquainted with grief. I have eaten nothing but sorrow and drunk nothing but pain.  
> I had many dreams once, but they are scattered on the wind, now. Along with my paper bones.

Prestor Hux found himself pulled from his daydreams by a pause in the instructor’s droning, monotone lesson.

 

“Cadet Hux!”

 

Prestor rose from his seat and stood at attention. In his head, he chastised himself for letting his mind wander again. An unfortunate habit, and one he was determined to break. The instructor didn’t seem to notice, however.

 

“Describe the significance of the Battle of Yavin.”

 

An easy question. The instructor was not actually questioning Prestor’s knowledge, but rather using the sound of a different voice to break up the monotony of the lesson.

 

“The Yavin system harbored dangerous anti-Imperial sentiments,” Prestor began. “Following the successful test-firing of the Death Star on the planet of Alderaan, a terrorist group known as the Rebel Alliance launched an attack on the Death Star in order to defend their vulnerable base on Yavin 4. The significant losses sustained by the Rebels during their desperate and unsuccessful offensive weakened them and proved the turning point in the Civil War.”

 

“Correct. Thank you, Cadet Hux.”

 

Prestor nodded sharply and sat back down. As he had guessed, the instructor had merely been breaking up the lesson, making it easier for the other cadets to follow. Prestor barely held back a sneer. If they were having trouble with the material, then they didn’t deserve to be in the class. He himself never received less than perfect scores.

 

Cadet Prestor Hux lived an organized life. Precision. Accuracy. Correctness.

 

Prestor’s older brother, Brendol Hux Jr., had been a model student during his time at the Imperial Academy on Arkanis. He had scored perfectly in every class, set records in physical and simulated training, and graduated at the top of his class in nearly every aspect.

 

Prestor had set out determined to break all those records.

 

Anthropometrics and Biomechanics

Advanced Leadership in Combat

Analytical Chemistry

Statistics and Dynamics

Engineering Mechanics and design

Thermal Fluid Systems III

Engineering Design - Aeronautics

Fundamentals of Comm Photonics (As a tutor, of course)

Philosophies of the Old Republic

Geomorphology III

History of the Military Art

Advanced Small Unit Operations

Electrodynamics in Astrophysics

Applied System Design and Management

 

All of the most advanced, most difficult classes, and Prestor Hux had beaten them all. He reigned triumphant at the top of his father’s school.

 

Just as the Commandant had said he never would.

 

1230 hours. The class was over, and Prestor had fifteen minutes before he needed to be in his seat for his Applied Mathematics and Cryptology class (one of his favorites. He loved seeing the abstract art of numbers applied in algorithms in a practical application) and he usually used these few extra minutes to sit and eat a quick meal.

 

Today, though, there was something else he needed to use this time for. An urgent matter that could not be delayed. He made his way to the front office of the school. It was not where the Commandant’s office was located, of course. These offices were only for the lowest of the secretarial pecking order. They were, however, where Prestor needed to go. The Commandant did not approve of his son trying to use anything other than the most official of avenues.

 

“Secretary Kai.”

 

“Cadet Hux,” the woman smiled. “Is there something I can do for you?”

 

“Yes,” said Prestor. “I need to report seeing that degenerate lurking around the school again.”

 

She sighed and pulled up a new file on her console. “Where was he this time?”

 

“Near B-Wing, around the back. I saw him at 0600 hours, while I was on my way across the parade grounds.”

 

She wrinkled her nose as she entered the information. “Did he see you?”

 

“He was staring right at me.” Prestor couldn’t completely suppress a shudder. “I want this taken care of as quickly as possible. My father’s school is not to be the hunting ground of some perverted, filthy derelict.”

 

The secretary paled at the mention of the Commandant. “Of course, Cadet Hux. It’s just… no one has been able to find him. The sanitation workers and security have all been notified, but you’re the only one who has seen him.”

 

“Then no one else is looking hard enough,” snapped Prestor. “Read back to me the description I gave to you, before.”

 

She pulled up the earlier file. “Human. Male. Between 1.7 and 1.8 meters tall. Of indeterminate but elderly age. White hair and beard. Clothes: brown. Patched and threadbare.”

 

Prestor nodded. “That’s him. I expect everyone to be on the lookout for this man. This kind of thing will not be tolerated.”

 

Secretary Kai nodded, her face more than a bit frightened. Guilt struck at Prestor. He hadn’t meant to frighten her, really. Only to impress on her the importance of her task.

 

Prestor Hux had figured out very early on in his schooling that he had zero leeway with his instructors. The Commandant wanted everyone to be absolutely certain that his sons sank or swam entirely on their own merit, and not on their familial connections. However, the other staff members, such as cafeteria workers and receptionists and everyone else required to make a campus of this size continue to function, were under no such restraint. It was very much to Prestor’s advantage to have them on his side.

 

“Miss Kai,” Prestor said. He leaned a bit over her desk, letting his voice soften a bit. All calculated exactly. “My mother, stars bless her, sent me a ticket to attend the Arkanis Grand Nahaltin Concert at the end of the month. She forgot that I already had plans that day. I seem to remember you saying something about wanting to attend?”

 

The Secretary’s eyes were bright with excitement, and she looked around carefully to be sure no one was listening when she leaned over her desk in response. “Really?” she whispered. “You… you’re just giving it to me?”

 

“I can’t use it,” said Prestor. “And I can’t send it back to my mother. She would die of embarrassment. You would be doing me a favor by taking it off my hands.”

 

Secretary Kai looked around again, and Prestor pulled out his datapad. “Here,” he said. I’ll transfer it to you right now.”

 

There were nearly tears in the woman’s eyes as Prestor walked away. “Thank you, Hux,” she whispered.

 

Prestor didn’t look back, but he smiled to himself.

 

The rest of the day went smoothly and according to schedule, just as it was supposed to.

 

1245 hours. Counterinsurgency Operations.

 

1400 hours. Theoretical Aeronautic Integrated Systems

 

1545 hours. Advanced Military Psychology

 

1700 hours. A small break for a meal, eaten in the cafeteria with the other cadets. Appearances were important, so Prestor ate there with everyone else, even though the other cadets never sat at the same table he did. After eating, he would walk a lap around campus, stretching his legs out and breathing the outdoor air. Even when it rained. Like it did almost every day.

 

1845 hours. Comparative Legal Systems (His easiest class. Part of the reason he went for a walk beforehand was to get his blood moving around enough to keep himself from falling asleep.)

 

And then, his last class before retiring to his room for the night.

 

2000 hours. Advanced Close Quarters Combat

 

Prestor greatly enjoyed having this class be the last one in the day. It let him get everything out of his system before pouring himself into his essays, his worksheets, his assignments of the evening.

 

He would be the first to admit that he didn’t look like much of an athlete. He was too thin, and grew too tall too fast to have good leverage. It was only in the last month or two that he had finally started to put on some muscle mass, and he was still woefully behind the other cadets his age in that area.

 

Still, he had worked hard. And his gangly, awkward limbs gave him a long reach. And he could out-think his opponents. He had always been good at reading people.

 

And, most importantly, Prestor Hux was vicious. He had very few things in life that he loved, and while he would never admit it out loud, one of the things he loved was hurting other people.

 

So, given permission to do so, Prestor would _hurt_ them.

 

It was rather satisfying.

 

Even if it got to the point that other cadets had to be threatened with disciplinary action to get them to face him in a sparring match. Maybe _especially_ then. There was no one in the fight but himself and his opponent.

 

No father telling him he wasn’t enough.

 

No mother telling him he was too much.

 

Just himself, breaking another cadet’s nose against the floor and choking them until they passed out and the instructor had to physically pull Prestor off before he killed someone.

 

He walked into his room and turned on the lights exactly at 2200 hours. The room was all his, one of the few that were designated as single-occupant. No roommate. Some people said that it was the one thing that the Commandant allowed his son the luxury of having. Other people, Prestor included, knew what it really was.

 

Isolation from his peers.

 

He had a few hours of work to do before he could fall asleep, but he turned on his personal console, first. He had two messages.

 

The first one was from Bren. Prestor rolled his eyes. His esteemed older brother, Brendol Hux Jr., loved to write lengthy communications. He loved telling Prestor, in great detail, all of the wonderful things he was accomplishing and experiencing as a newly-promoted Brigadier-General in the Imperial Fleet, sure to soon be in command of his own starship.

 

Prestor enjoyed responding with “That sounds like fun”. And nothing else.

 

The other message was from his mother, asking him to comm her as soon as he was done with classes.

 

Curious, Prestor opened the transmission.

 

Mother answered quickly, the holo of her face appearing above Prestor’s desk. “Your hair is messed,” was the first thing she said. “Have you been fighting again?”

 

Prestor sighed, a little more dramatically than her teasing merited. “It’s called Advanced Close Quarters Combat, mother, and it’s a class. There is adult supervision and everything.”

 

She smiled at his protest. Cedes Hux was a lovely woman, and people often told Prestor he was lucky to take after her so much. Not within hearing of the Commandant, of course. Prestor looked at his mother and saw his own hair, his eyes, his chin. Some days it seemed all he got from his father was his height and his stubbornness.

 

“How is the rest of school going?” she asked. “The parts where you aren’t punching people in the face?”

 

“Very well,” he said, smiling. His mother was one of the few people he could smile for. “I finished all my applications and forms for my officer’s commision. I received word yesterday from General Biggs. He says he will look into having me stationed on the _Finalizer_ after my graduation.”

 

Cedes Hux seemed to light up with pride. “How very exciting,” she said quietly, but her eyes betrayed her. “Graduation is coming up fast. Only, what, two weeks left?”

 

“Twelve standard days.”

 

His mother’s expression grew sharp. Prestor tried not to let his face show any emotion, but he had never been able to hide much from his mother. She was a force to be reckoned with. Commandant Hux was a powerful man in the Empire, certainly. What many people overlooked, however, was the kind of woman such a man would choose to marry. Their marriage may have been arranged, to tie Old Republic nobility to Imperial leadership, but the Commandant would never have agreed to bind his name and life to someone inferior to himself. In many ways, Cedes Hux was _more_ dangerous than her husband. And not just in a political sense.

 

“Have those night terrors been bothering you, still?” she questioned.

 

“They aren’t night terrors, mother. They’re just normal nightmares,” Prestor said for what felt like the millionth time. “And no, they haven’t been bothering me,” he lied.

 

“That’s good,” she said. She hesitated for a moment, thinking over her next words. She was always careful with what she said. “I wanted to talk to you about an invitation our family has received. The Emperor himself has requested that we come and visit him at the Imperial Palace.”

 

“All of us? Bren, too?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does Father know?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“When?”

 

“Just after your graduation ceremony.”

 

“...and only three weeks after Bren’s promotion,” Prestor mused to himself.

 

Cedes lifted one eyebrow. “What are you thinking, Pres?”

 

Prestor shrugged. “This invitation could be any number of things. I don’t have enough information to narrow it down meaningfully.”

 

His mother nodded. “The timing seems significant,” she said. “It could be that the Emperor merely wishes to extend his congratulations on our family’s successes.”

 

“Or it could be something else.”

 

“Pres,” she said. “Did you get the new garment I sent you?”

 

Prestor blinked. “Oh. Yes. Yes I did.”

 

He hadn’t received anything from her. It was code. The word ‘garment’ meant ‘be careful there is danger near’. The two of them hadn’t used that old verbal code in many years, but Prestor still remembered it. Why his mother was using it now, Prestor had no idea. Was the security of their comm compromised? Was his room bugged? Or was there someone in the room with her, unseen, that she did not wish to hear her warning to her son?

 

“That’s a relief,” she said with a smile. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure you have work to do.”

 

“I do,” he admitted, still slightly shaken by her secret warning. “I’ll talk to you again, soon.”

 

“I’ll see you soon, Pres.”

 

Prestor finished his schoolwork without really thinking about it. He should be focused, putting the final touches on his career here at the Imperial Academy. Only a few scarce days, a handful of final tests and reports, and he would be… something else. Different than he was now.

 

But what did his mother mean? What danger was nearby? He wished he could talk to her face-to-face, but she was on Coruscant at the moment. Too far to just swing by for a quick talk. But he should see her at the graduation. She had promised she would would be on Arkanis for that.

 

Prestor gave up on his assignments and filled in the rest of the answers with nonsense. He could fix them before class tomorrow.

 

At 2311 Cadet Prestor Hux turned out his lights and slipped into sleep.

  
The masked man in darkness was waiting for him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speak your secrets, sweet one.  
> Your paper bones are not lost.  
> They are only hidden.  
> Hidden for so long you forgot they were ever yours.  
> But you still have them.  
> Will you wake them up?


	3. We Disappoint We Disappear We Die But We Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prestor has an adventure. He decides he doesn’t much care for them. They are messy and smell unpleasant.
> 
>  
> 
> You know what I blame for giving me the idea for this fic? Batman v Superman. I haven't even seen the freaking movie; the idea came from the stupid poster. Don't ask me how my brain works I don't even know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of night.  
> I found these paper bones, but I did not know the worth of what they were.  
> In my ignorance, I treated them poorly.  
> I… regret.  
> I would tear out my own bones to set right what I made wrong.

_A roofless room of grey stone stood beneath a grey sky. Prestor Hux ran his hands across a wall, feeling the impurities in the rock with his fingertips. The scent of brine filled his lungs, and he could hear roaring water._

 

_“What is this place?” he asked of his companion._

 

_The man was quiet for the space of several breaths. “A temple,” he finally said, his voice deep, strange and distorted. “It once belonged to the Sith, many centuries ago. My master told me much of it…”_

 

_Prestor turned at last to face him, this uncanny man all in black. Black fabric moved in the wind, concealing much. But there was no hiding how tall he was, several inches taller even than Prestor, and broad-shouldered. A black mask covered his face and twisted his voice, leaving Prestor guessing at how much humanity really lay beneath._

 

_Movement. The man’s hand gripped at the handle of a weapon. Prestor flinched. He had a blaster at his hip, but he knew any weapon he had would be utterly useless against this opponent. No one else knew where he was, alone with this creature, darkness incarnate._

 

_“So, my Lord,” he hissed. “You do mean to kill me, after all. Is that what your ‘master’ demands of you?”_

 

_The man in black looked down at his weapon, as if he were ashamed. As if he were capable of such a feeling. “Yes,” he said, and a blade of red light leapt into being._

 

_“If it is any consolation…” The man looked back up. Prestor could see only Dark in him. “I truly do wish it hadn’t come to this. Goodbye.”_

 

Prestor woke soaked in sweat, his bedsheets twisted around his limbs like strangling serpents. His breath and heartbeat still racing, he looked at the chronometer.

 

0201

 

He groaned. It felt like he hadn’t slept at all, like he really had been standing in that strange grey place. His arms and legs felt stiff and sore. Probably from moving around so much in his sleep.

 

Trying to calm down, to control his semi-autonomic physiological systems, Prestor took a deep breath. And another. And another. Surely he could fall back asleep soon enough. He could put the dream out of his head…

 

It was strange, though. That was the first time the man in his dream had actually threatened him so blatantly. Usually, the man only watched, a shadow on the edge of Prestor’s vision that dimmed the light from his presence alone. Sometimes he was almost ghost-like, disappearing when Prestor turned his head to look right at him. Other times, though, like this dream, there was a solidness to him, a heavy reality that weighed down on Prestor like a chain around his neck, dragging him down.

 

Prestor wanted to smack himself. He was getting maudlin, the nightmare and late hour making his brain not as efficient and organized as he would like.

 

Just calm down.

 

Just go back to sleep.

 

Prestor looked at the time again.

 

0207

 

Hell. It didn't matter if he got back to sleep. Tomorrow, Prestor didn’t have any classes. It was some kind of holiday. What was it again? Not that he really cared that much. A few of the cadets were taking the day off to head to town, but Prestor had planned on spending the day working. He hated to disrupt his body’s sleep schedule, but if he couldn’t get to sleep anyway…

 

At 0210, Prestor Hux left his room and turned out the lights. He’d slipped on the clothes he normally wore for his close combat class, loose and comfortable to allow free movement, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Stalking silently through the dark hallways of the dorms, he felt like he was still dreaming. Not of the dark man, though. No, this was more like a daydream. The few windows in the hall scattered starlight in his path. The blanket around him was the robe of a God-King, the stars his stepping stones. The galaxy was his to command, to control. The elements themselves obeyed his will. With a wave of his hand, he could level mountains and raise seas.

 

Prestor stopped, standing silent and still. Had that been the sound of someone approaching? There, just around the corner, the quiet footsteps of someone who did not wish to be heard.

 

A memory rose in Prestor’s head. The old man in the courtyard, ragged and decrepit, his eyes fixed relentlessly on Prestor. Was it him?

 

Around the corner came a figure, and Prestor moved without thinking, snatching and twisting and arms and pinning up against a wall-

 

“Ah!”

 

The gasp was very quiet, but it was enough for Prestor to recognize whose arm he had nearly dislocated.

 

“Oh. Hey, Mitaka.”

 

“Hey, Hux.”

 

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

 

“Oh, well, that’s alright then. Um… Hux?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Can you let go?”

 

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

 

Prestor released his hold on the other cadet. Dopheld Mitaka and he may have been the same age, but there was something about Mitaka that made him look younger and far more innocent than he actually was. It frustrated Prestor, sometimes. He was sure that if Mitaka just put in a little more effort, he wouldn’t come across as such a weakling. Prestor _knew_ Mitaka was smarter and more cunning than he looked, but those wide eyes still managed to convey fragility. It made Mitaka’s time at the Academy harder than it needed to be.

 

Prestor was not a naturally intimidating person, judging purely by appearances. He worked hard to minimize that.

 

“Um…” said Mitaka. “So… what are you doing out so late, Hux?”

 

Prestor could see no advantage in a lie. “I couldn’t sleep.” Mitaka fidgeted, his eyes shifting. “Why are _you_ out so late, Mitaka?”

 

“Oh… you know. Same thing.”

 

Prestor leaned a little into the shorter cadet’s space. “Mitaka,” he said quietly. “You want to tell me the truth.”

 

Mitaka resisted for a moment, and then sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Fine. I’m sneaking out.”

 

“Sneaking out?”

 

“Yeah. Just for the day. I’ll be back before classes start again.”

 

Prestor tipped his head to one side and crossed his arms. “Your parents said you couldn’t leave for the holiday.”

 

Mitaka gestured wildly, still trying to keep his voice hushed. “It’s not like my grades are _that_ terrible! So I won’t graduate with flawless honors, like you. It’s not that big of a deal!”

 

Prestor shrugged. He didn’t see the point in settling for less than perfect but he wasn’t going to say anything at the moment.

 

Mitaka seemed to be considering something. “What is it?” asked Prestor.

 

“Do you… want to come with?”

 

Honestly, the invitation flat-out shocked Prestor. “Wait, really?”

 

“Well, yeah! It’ll be fun!”

 

“Fun?”

 

“Yeah! The festival on Corellia is supposed to be great! Just one big celebration, and my friend there says he knows all the best things to do. Really knows his way around a party, if you know what I mean.”

 

Prestor didn’t, but he had a few very good guesses. This wasn’t the sort of thing he normally did, in rather the same way that he didn’t make a habit of gargling sand. In most circumstances, there would be no chance of his accepting the offer.

 

But on the heels of that dream, that horrible mask and the sword of red light… Prestor felt like something had changed already, while he wasn’t looking. Something unexpected had happened, and most frustratingly he didn’t even know what that change was or how it affected him. But here he was thinking of leaving Arkanis and going to a festival on Corellia with a schoolmate he hardly even knew well.

 

He didn’t know any of his peers that well.

 

He’d never been extended an offer like this, to join in the not-well-thought-out antics of youth.

 

“What do you say, Hux? Come with?”

 

Prestor made himself nod before he could think his way out of it.

 

“Great!” said Mitaka, his eyes lighting up. “Because I’ve never been off-world on my own, before. I was pretty nervous about going by myself.”

 

“Aren’t you going with that friend of yours?”

 

“Yeah, but we’re meeting Dameron there. He’s living there, on Corellia.”

 

“He graduated already?”

 

“Well…” Mitaka was leading Prestor down through the dorms to the exit, and they stopped at the door to look up at the sky. It had stopped raining, and a few stars could be seen. “I think he’s old enough to have graduated, but he never went to the Academy. His parents are very, well, anti-establishment, so they educated him themselves. He seems to get by just fine.”

 

It took them less than twenty minutes to get into town, and then less than ten minutes after that the two of them were sitting side by side on a passenger cruiser, on their way to Corellia. Mitaka was carrying enough credits for both of their tickets, plus a pair of boots and a jacket for Prestor. “And a little more,” Mitaka winked. “For whatever happens on Corellia.”

 

Prestor thought about the last time he had been away from Arkanis. It had to have been well over a year ago; the Commandant hated to leave the Academy without his supervision, so family trips elsewhere were rare. In fact, Prestor realized, the last time he had left Arkanis had been just after Bren’s graduation. When Cedes asked him if he would like to travel anywhere together as a family, Bren had selected the planet Kuat.

 

Prestor’s favorite memory of that time had been when he and Bren had gone down to the beach together, just the two of them. Bren had tipped his head back, letting his rust-colored hair fall away from his face as he gazed up at the massive shipyards that orbited the planet.

 

_“Do you see that, Pres?” he whispered, almost reverent. “All those starships being built. I wonder which one will be mine? I wonder if it’s one of those we can see right now?”_

 

The daydream ended as the cruiser entered the atmosphere of Corellia, shifting slightly as it settled into air. Mitaka nudged at Prestor with a sharp elbow. “We’re here, Hux.”

 

Prestor grimaced. “While we’re away from the Academy,” he said. “I… I would like it if you just called me Prestor.”

 

Mitaka grinned. “Will you call me Dopheld?”

 

A shrug. “Sure.”

 

“Alright then, Prestor,” Mitaka grabbed Prestor’s arm. He wondered if the other cadets were fine with physical contact, if it was just him who had to fight down the urge to punch Mitaka in the face for daring to touch him. “Let’s go!”

 

Coronet City was a kaleidoscope. The beautiful city was even more colorful than usual for the holiday. Pink and purple and blue and green and orange were flung everywhere, in joyous abandon. Fireworks crackled in the sky, the booming of their explosions barely heard over all the the music, the laughter and raised voices. The air was warm and humid; Prestor’s shirt clung to him, and he swore he could taste some kind of spice whenever the breeze shifted the heavy weight of perfume and sweat and smells of hundreds of different foods from every world imaginable.

 

The crowds pressed up against him one moment, and then ebbed away the next, a kind of living tide. Not wanting to be swept away in it, Prestor found himself practically clinging to Mitaka, where only a few minutes before he had been quite the opposite.

 

“Where’s your friend?” Prestor asked, having to raise his voice to be heard over the din.

 

“He said he’d be at the Shadelight Club. I think it’s this way!”

 

Despite the anxiety caused by the phrase ‘I think’, Mitaka did, in fact, seem to know his way to the gleaming building, its massive windows reflecting back all the revelry of the night. Neon blue letters taller than Prestor spelled out ‘Shadelight’ three stories over their heads.

 

The inside was, if possible, even louder and more overwhelming. Bodies were packed in close together, moving around to sounds that Prestor had to assume were meant to be some kind of music, even though he couldn’t detect a hint of a melody. Smoke made the air hazy, but somehow, once again, Mitaka managed to find exactly where they needed to go.

 

“Over there! I see him!” Mitaka waved at someone Prestor could not see through the crowd. “Come on!”

 

Tugged over to an alcove, Prestor finally could make out the shape of someone waving them over.

 

“Poe!”

 

“Dop!” cried the stranger in response, a wide, white smile on his face. Mitaka was swept up into a rough embrace, picked clean up off the ground and spun around. Perhaps, Prestor thought, companionship with peers was not so desirable after all, if standard interactions required so much touching.

 

“Prestor,” said Mitaka once he had regained his feet and his breath. “This is my buddy Poe Dameron. Poe, this is Prestor… ah…”

 

With a smirk that would frighten a rathtar, Dameron stepped up and gave Prestor a rib-crushing hug. The bastard damn well could tell Prestor didn’t want it and gave one anyway, the scruffy-faced son of a-

 

“It’s great to meet you, Prestor,” said Dameron, almost convincingly sincere. “Come on, boys! Have a shot!”

 

Prestor found himself being maneuvered onto a bench, the table in front of him graced with several glasses and bottles full of highly suspicious liquid. “I, um…” Prestor had only ever tasted alcohol a few times, red wine sipped from his mother’s glass when he was a bit younger. “I’m afraid I don’t know the local selection,” he managed.

 

Dameron and Mitaka both laughed, as if Prestor had said something hilarious. “Here,” said Dameron. “I’ll pick the first drink for you two. How about…” He leaned over the choices on the table. With some alarm, Prestor realized that Dameron was between him and Mitaka. When had Mitaka become his lifeline in this insanity?

 

“Aha!” Dameron cried, and scooted two tiny glasses across the table to Mitaka and Prestor. “They call this one the Alderaan Sunrise.”

 

Prestor watched with some fascination as Mitaka gulped down the red-orange drink in one go, winced slightly, and then smacked his lips together. “Mm. You sure know how to pick them, Poe,” the cadet said, a flushed smile spreading over his features.

 

Well, if Mitaka could do it… Prestor picked up the glass, and with great determination, attempted the swallow the contents.

 

Once the laughter had died down and the mess was wiped up, Dameron slid a tall, thin glass in front of Prestor. “Here, sweet thing,” he said with a wink. “I think you’ll actually like this one.”

 

 _Sweet thing!?_ Extremely distrustful, but willing to power through anything this time, Prestor sipped at the sea-green alcohol. It still bit at his tongue and burned his throat, but Dameron was right, this one had an almost cooling after-taste that lingered like honey.

 

“Better?” Mitaka asked.

 

Prestor nodded. “Better.”

 

“Good,” said Dameron. He leaned his elbows on the table and gave Prestor an oddly calculated look. Prestor felt like he was being measured for something. “You know… if someone were to ask me if I had a type, my _usual_ answer would be tall, dark and handsome…”

 

Prestor glanced at Mitaka for help, but the other cadet seemed to be suddenly enraptured with the lights pulsing in time to the music.

 

Dameron backed away with a small smile and a slight shrug. “Just something to consider, if that is something you want to experience while you are here.”

 

Oh. Dameron was hitting on him. Prestor felt his face grow hot. “I’ll… think about it?”

 

Dameron shrugged again. “There’s no pressure. Just letting you know that the offer is on the table.”

 

Prestor wondered if this was a technique that worked often for the man. “Thank you?”

 

The beat of the music died down, and then picked back up, the rhythm slightly changed. Mitaka stood up from the booth, his eyes gleaming.

 

“Poe!” he cried. “I love this song! Come dance with me!”

 

“Yeah!” Dameron slid around to escape the booth, only banging his knees a couple of times. “Are you coming, Prestor?”

 

Prestor eyed the teeming mass of people and grimaced. “No, thank you. I’ll be right here.”

 

Mitaka looked ready to pull Prestor from his seat, but Dameron dragged him away into the haze. At least the man had _some_ sense of respecting people’s boundaries, even if it seemed to fluctuate with his whims.

 

Prestor raised his fingers to his lips. They felt… strange. Slightly numb. Was that normal? He hadn’t really had that much to drink. How strong _was_ this stuff?

 

He tried to ignore the feeling, but it was growing worse rapidly. Too fast. Was his drink drugged? Had Dameron slipped something into the glass before they showed up? Prestor’s vision was starting to swim in and out of focus, the pounding sound of the club ricocheted around the inside of his skull. This was _wrong._ This was _bad._ He had to-

 

_Prestor walked towards the great empty throne. It felt as though a billion eyes were on him. Only a very few mattered, though. To one side of the throne stood his parents, the Commandant stone-faced but radiating pride and joy. Mother stood with her head held high, her usual veil tossed back from her face. She wanted to see this moment clearly, forever._

 

_The weight of the crown was light on Prestor’s head, but heavy with meaning. He had won. Despite all of the odds against him, he stood here, now, ready to ascend to his rightful place. Even the man made of darkness, though standing behind, where Prestor could not see him, felt more like a reassurance, a protection, than anything else._

 

_As he moved to the throne and turned to cast his eyes over the assembled crowd, Prestor hesitated. There was someone missing. Someone he couldn’t enjoy this moment without._

 

_“Where is Bren?”_

 

_The dark man stepped forward, the movement powerful, and the man quickly, though not gracefully, lowered himself, bowing on one knee before Prestor._

 

_“Your Majesty,” said the man, his voice crackling through his mask. “I’m sorry, but I did not catch your question. What is it you desire?”_

 

_Prestor squared his shoulders to the man. “Where is my brother? I want to see him.”_

 

_The man in black hesitated. “Your Majesty,” he said slowly. “He… “_

 

_“Where’s Bren?”_

 

_“He is dead.”_

 

_All of the color bled from the room. “What?”_

 

_“You ordered me to kill him.”_

 

_Prestor’s stomach twisted, sickened. “No…” There had to be some mistake-_

 

_“You wanted him out of the way,” said the dark man. “You wanted to ensure your place as Emperor…”_

 

_“No!”_

 

Prestor jolted awake to a blinding light. It was right above him, shining in his face, obscuring whatever space he was in. Feeling slightly feverish, still frantic in the aftermath of that dream, Prestor tried to push his hair back from his face. His hands were tied behind his back, though, his arms twisted around the back of a chair and his ankles tied to the legs.

 

A _clang_ of metal on metal sounded from the musty shadows. He was in a large space, judging by the echoes. It stank strongly of mold and decay.

 

“Who’s there!?” Prestor called out, his voice higher than he meant it to sound. He wasn’t going to panic. He wasn’t. He struggled against the rope that held his wrists behind him so awkwardly. “Wh-Why are you doing this?”

 

A chuckle emerged from the darkness. “We’re bad guys and for the money.”

 

Ransom, then. “If you think you are going to get anything out of this other than an execution chair, you are badly mistaken!”

 

Prestor desperately tried to clear his mind, to remember. He’d been _trained_ for these sorts of situations, damn it. But nothing was coming into his head, no answers, nothing. Prestor knew he had been drugged, but... this felt more like… like there was a wall keeping his mind at bay… rather than a fog of chemicals. He’d never felt anything like it. It was terrifying. Fear like he’d never known threatened to drown him.

 

Fear led to anger.

 

Anger led to _hate._

 

“Don’t be like that, kid,” said the voice. Prestor could almost make out the shape of a man in the gloom. “I’m sure the great Commandant Hux would pay some good money to have his son back. How high should we ask? Half a million? Or do you think we could get more?”

 

Prestor sneered. “My father will not negotiate with filth like you! You really think I’m worth more to him than his honor?”

 

A low rumble, the roar of some creature in the dark, shook the chair that Prestor was tied to and made all his hair stand on end. The man laughed.

 

“What?” spat Prestor.

 

“He said we should start cutting off your fingers and sending them to your old man. Maybe that will convince him to pay us.”

 

The man finally leaned forward, just enough that Prestor could make him out. Brown hair, just starting to grey at the temples, and a cocky head tilt to match a confident stance. Most notably, the man had a gnarled scar, the tissue uneven and ghastly-looking, that sliced from his hairline down to his jaw, passing under an eyepatch on the way.

 

“Do your worst, scum,” Prestor said. He could feel himself shaking, but not with fear. With _rage_. Images of the violence he would wreak on this pathetic criminal tumbled across his vision. If he could just slip the ropes from his wrists…

 

“Solo,” said another voice behind Prestor, scratchy and inhuman. “Stop messing with the _kira’ak_ and send the ransom message already!”

 

“Go to hell, Gàa'gii” said the man, apparently ‘Solo’. “ _I’m_ in charge of this operation. _I_ give the orders, and _you_ keep quiet and do what I say, got it?”

 

“Whatever, _boss_.”

 

Solo grinned and put his hands on his hips. “Bantha-breath does have a point,” he said. “Chewie? Tear one of his fingers off.”

 

A shadow moved closer to Prestor, and his mouth went dry when a long, hairy arm reached behind him to grab at his hands-

 

The crash of a door being slammed shut with an enormous amount of force made both Prestor and the creature advancing on him jump in surprise.

 

Solo turned away. “The fu-”

 

A brilliant flash of white light burned against Prestor’s eyes. A flashbomb of some kind. Assorted screams of pain filled the room; there must have been more people there than he initially accounted for. A roar fell away from him, signalling the hairy monster’s retreat, but Prestor heard himself shout in shock when another set of hands grabbed at his wrists.

 

“Come on!” said a new voice. The ropes fell away, and Prestor nearly sobbed in relief when he was able to move his shoulders without restraint.

 

“Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  
Prestor was in no state of mind at all to question his sudden rescue. He stumbled to his feet, his sight gone for the moment, but a strong hand took his and led him to what he hoped was freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe you.  
> The House of Paper Bones has many rooms.  
> A room can be found for you.


	4. I Had Strange Heroes As A Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prestor considers the ethics of murdering one’s rescuer. Not out loud, of course. That would be rude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of swords.  
> No one told me I had paper bones.  
> How could I have known?  
> With my own blade  
> I cut right through them  
> Shredding them.  
> They bled all over my hands  
> But no one helped me.  
> No one came.  
> Must I try to heal them on my own?

Prestor and his unknown rescuer raced through black corridors, their breaths panting in and out. His legs felt heavy and stiff, and Prestor was glad of the physical training he did, or feared he would have collapsed before emerging from a narrow doorway into a deep night beginning to pale with dawn.

 

“This way!” said the man he was with, tugging at his arm and leading him to a ramp, up into the belly of a small cruiser. “Captain! Take-off!”

 

“Yes, my Lord,” came the response, and Prestor felt the engines rumble beneath his feet. The ramp slid closed, and at last Prestor turned to look at his rescuer.

 

The man didn’t exactly cut the image of a dashing savior, but Prestor wasn’t about to start complaining. He was dressed more like a nobleman than anything else, all silks and soft leather and velvets in various shades of blue. The color brought out his eyes, a bright piercing blue. His hair was a dark sandy blond and his short beard matched, both slightly tousled from exertion. He could have been anywhere from his late thirties to early forties. The nobility of the Core Worlds often went to great lengths to keep themselves looking as young as possible, so he could have been older than he looked.

 

“Thank you,” said Prestor. “For saving me.”

 

The man smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fret about it, young one. I’m not the kind of person who can stand idly by when I could be of assistance.”

 

“How… how did you know what was going on?”

 

The man led Prestor through the ship, a luxury cruiser, it looked like, from the spacious and well-appointed interior, to a large cabin. “I pay very good money to be informed of anything of note that happens on any planet on which I am staying.” He smiled at Prestor again. “And the kidnapping of the son of Commandant Hux is of note.”

 

The cabin was carpeted in thick blue, with a bed to one side and a small sitting area to the other. The man gestured, and Prestor sat at one of the chairs. His eyes settled themselves on a peculiarity. In the center of the room, with all the seating aimed to make it the focal point as well as the physical center, sat a pedestal, like a display at a museum. Atop the display sat a plain white box, about 25 centimeters across and not quite as tall. It was open on one side and there was nothing within that Prestor could see.

 

“Forgive me,” Prestor said. “But, you don’t exactly seem the kind of man who would rush into a den of criminals to save a stranger. Who are you?”

 

The man laughed lightly and seated himself next to Prestor, his movements elegant and refined. “It’s a rare man who is mistaken for what he truly is,” he said. “At the moment, your friend, for the next ten minutes until we reach Coronet City, your host, and for the short time that formality stands between us, I am Count Yshaal’ya Naberrie of Kwilaan. It’s very nice to meet you, young Hux.”

 

Prestor shook the hand that the man offered him. “I’m Prestor,” he said.

 

“Prestor?” The man blinked. “Oh, the information the spy gave me must have been inaccurate. I thought your name-”

 

“I go by my middle name,” Prestor cut the man off. “The one my mother gave me. I’m sure the Commandant meant well, giving me a military name, but he could have chosen some _other_ war hero to name me after.”

 

The Count looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh in Prestor’s face. “I see,” he said. “That explains it.”

 

Prestor examined the man again. There was an unsettling air to the man. It wasn’t quite a threatening feeling, but more as if… as if the man could read everything about Prestor on his face, as if he were an open book, while Prestor could glean almost nothing.

 

“Are you thirsty?” the Count asked. “Or hungry? You’ve had quite the ordeal.”

 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Prestor didn’t particularly trust anything the man might offer, not so soon after being drugged.

 

“Tell me, young Hux, do you dream often?”

 

Prestor’s face betrayed his surprise, he was sure. Why would this eccentric nobleman ask such a question? A vision of the dark man rose in his mind, summoned by the Count’s question like a demon. “Sometimes.”

 

The Count leaned against the armrest of his chair. “Tell me about them.”

 

Where was this line of questioning going? Prestor tried not to let his face show anything, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that the Count could see right through him. “They're just dreams.”

 

“About what?” His voice pulled at Prestor, tugging, gentle but firm.

 

Still, Prestor resisted. “Why don’t you tell me?”

 

The Count smiled and gave a small laugh. A restrained nobleman's laugh that showed no true mirth. “If that was a gift of mine, young one, I don’t think you and I would be having this conversation.”

 

Prestor looked again at the box in the center of the cabin. It was completely innocuous, the only thing of interest about it was its placement in the room.

 

The Count followed his eyes. “Do you know what this is?”

 

Prestor shook his head. “No. What is it?”

 

“A test.”

 

Prestor looked sharply at the man. “A test for what?”

 

“If you reach into the box, you can find out.” The man’s face betrayed nothing. It was damnably frustrating. Prestor had always felt he was good at reading people, but he just couldn't tell what the Count was thinking.

 

Turning back to the strange box, Prestor thought through his options. They all seemed to reduce down to a binary choice. Either put his hand in the box or do not. All other choices were variations.

 

“The test must be taken of your own free will,” the Count continued. “It is your decision. Nothing material will be lost if you choose not to take it.”

 

“The choice to take the test is part of the test,” Prestor murmured.

 

“Indeed,” said the Count.

 

Prestor stood, and walk up to the box. It sat about waist-high on him. From this angle, he could no longer see into the open side. There was nothing at all remarkable about it.

 

The Count rose to stand next to him. “I must stress again,” he murmured. “You do not have to take this test. You can walk away.” He looked back at Prestor. “But you want to know, don’t you? You want to know if you have what it takes.”

 

Prestor had never run from anything in his life. There had never been a test given him he could not pass, no trial he could not endure. He put his hand in the box.

 

The Count moved his hand to the back of Prestor’s neck, his cool fingers brushing against skin.

 

“Don’t move, young one. I hold at your neck the poisoned needle of the diniih nabóhonitaah. Listen to me very carefully. Keep your hand in the box and live. Remove it and die.”

 

“What is-” Prestor felt his hand grow warm, and then hot. He grit his teeth as the sensation rose quickly to the point of searing pain. His teeth dug into his bottom lip and he fought to keep from crying out.

 

Prestor imagined he could feel the tiny needle at his neck, held there by the Count. Panic starting to rise, he tried to think of some way to subdue the Count before he could kill him, but the pain was making it harder and harder to think.

 

His hand was dipped in boiling oil, in acid, in liquid nitrogen. He couldn’t see his hand, but he could feel the flesh beginning to curl away from bone, withering and sloughing off. A small whimper escaped him.

 

_I will endure this. I must endure this!_

 

He could feel his mind retreating, starting to black out from the agony. With great effort, he fought back. If he let himself succumb, if he lost focus, he would pull his hand out and die.

 

“This will pass,” he heard himself whisper. “And I will be stronger for it.”

 

All at once, the pain ended. The rush of it nearly knocked Prestor from his feet. The Count pulled his hand away and stepped back. “Congratulations,” he said with a smile. “You did very well, young one.”

 

Prestor was shaking, a cold sweat all over his body. He didn’t want to move, was afraid to see the charred stump that surely remained where his hand was. But as he stepped back from the box, he pulled out his hand whole, pale skin unmarred and healthy. “Just stimulation of the nervous system,” he said, mostly to reassure his still frantic heartbeat.

 

“Yes,” said the Count. “I made a few alterations from when I encountered the test for myself.” He raised his hand and flexed the fingers. Prestor heard the quiet whirs of cybernetic gears. “I imagine that you would like some water, now.”

 

Prestor nodded, dazed, and stumbled into a chair. “Wh-Why?” He ran a hand through his hair. It must look truly terrible, by now. “What was the purpose of that? Endurance of pain?” He gave a short laugh. “I already know I can endure pain. Training at the Academy includes-”

 

“No-” the Count interrupted him. He poured water from a crystal pitcher into a glass and handed it to Prestor. It went down his throat smooth and cold. “This was a test of ch’ínádzííd. It is difficult to translate into basic but I’ll do my best.”

 

The Count sat down, his blue eyes piercing through Prestor. “Any animal can endure pain,” he said slowly. “A feral creature caught in a trap can gnaw off its own limb and escape. It takes a different kind of being entirely to maintain _awareness_ even through extremes. A different kind of creature to stay in the trap willingly, biding its time and waiting for the hunter to return. A different creature…” he smiled. There was no kindness or light in that smile. “To feign death so that it may kill the one who captured it.”

 

A small beep can from a panel in the wall next to them. “My Lord,” the captain’s voice said. “We are landing at Coronet City, now.”

 

“Thank you, Captain.” The Count leveled an inscrutable look at Prestor. “It has not been long since you were taken by Han Solo and his… helpers. It is not yet dawn. Yet you have been through much, young Hux. I think… you have learned something about yourself in the past two hours.”

 

Prestor stood up and set the glass down. “And what have _you_ learned, Count?”

 

The man stood and stretched his shoulders. “That there may yet be some hope for a boorish old man like myself.” He pulled a small chip from his pocket. “Here is my information, should you ever have need or want to contact me. I have the feeling that we may see each other again soon.”

 

Prestor accepted the small chip and placed it in his own pocket. He couldn’t think of any reason he could ever have for wanting to speak with this strange man again, but he didn’t want to seem rude. Besides, if there was any lasting damage to his nervous system he wanted to have someone he could pin the blame on.

 

The two of them walked down the ramp of the ship onto solid ground, and the Count turned to Prestor one last time. “Until next we meet, young Hux.”

 

“Farwell, Count of Kwilaan.” _I hope we never meet again._

 

The city was much quieter, now. The revelry had faded to only a few very determined partiers and drunkards swaying among the tall buildings. Much to his surprise, it wasn’t hard to find the same club he and Mitaka and Dameron had been at. Inside, a few pathetic sentients still seemed intent on celebration.

 

“Hey, friend. Wanna buy some death-sticks?”

 

Prestor leveled a withering glare at the slimy little man. “You don’t want to sell me death-sticks.”

 

“I don’t want to sell you death-sticks.”

 

“In fact, you should go home and rethink your life.”

 

“I’ll go home and rethink my life.”

 

Mitaka and Dameron dozed in the booth, propped up against each other. Mitaka stirred slightly when Prestor jabbed him in the side with one of his fingers.

 

“Oh, hey Hux,” he mumbled. “Or, uh, whatever.”

 

“Come on, Mitaka,” said Prestor, his arms heavy with exhaustion. “I’m ready to go back to the Academy.”

 

“Mmm.” Mitaka rubbed at his eyes. “Did you have a good time? Did you make any new friends?”

 

“No,” Prestor snapped.

 

“That’s too bad.”

 

As far as Prestor was concerned, the entire planet of Corellia could shove their parties where no sun could shine. He untangled Mitaka from Dameron, dragged his sorry ass to the station, and got them both on the next ship back to Arkanis.

 

He didn’t want to fall asleep. He would have been perfectly fine with never sleeping again. But the hum of the starship’s engines, the slightly warm air, and sitting still in one position after the adrenaline-fraught night he’d had all conspired together to pull Prestor under.

 

_The room was cavernous, swathed in shadows. The man made of darkness knelt under the single light in the room. It seemed as though the light refused to touch him._

 

_The man was speaking to another figure. Prestor could just barely make out the flickering of a hologram. As his eyes focused, he almost thought he could make out the face of the Emperor._

 

_The hologram faded, and the man of shadows remained still on his knees, his head slightly bowed as if deep in thought. There was a sadness lingering about him, a deep melancholy that Prestor could only glimpse the surface of._

 

_After what seemed an eternity, the man lifted his head, and the gaping pits where his eyes should be looked deep into Prestor._

 

_“I know your face…” the man said. Whatever filter was altering his voice seemed to only just manage to pick up the sound. “I know your face… better than I know my own…”_

 

_For the briefest of moments, Prestor imagined that he felt a spectral caress, as if the man had traced his features with invisible fingers._

 

_“Why?” the man said. “Why do you show yourself again, now?” Slowly, carefully, as if in great pain, the man rose to his feet. “Victory is all but ours, but you… Spirit, phantom, whatever you are… You always have come to me in the darkest moments of my life. Is this because of the child in the desert? Why are you here, now?”_

 

_Prestor found he could speak, but only barely. “This is a dream.”_

 

_“Perhaps for you, it is. This is far too real, for me.” The man took a step closer. “You look… a little younger than last time. More naive and innocent. Time truly means nothing to the Force.”_

 

_Prestor stood in silence. The dream ate away at his bones. “I don’t feel innocent.”_

 

_“You do not know what you do not know.” How boringly cryptic. “But I must ask you something,” the man said. “Why you gave me that message, when last I saw you.”_

 

_The man took one more step. Prestor refused to shy away. He would not cower before this sad creature. “Message?”_

  
_“You asked me… no… you_ begged _me not to kill Han Solo. Why?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were wronged, child,  
> But you are far from alone.  
> Hold out your hand.  
> Open your eyes.  
> I am here.


	5. Red and Black and Red and Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prestor graduates from the Imperial Academy. The ceremony is very nice. Then the Hux family meets the Emperor and, more importantly, his servant.
> 
> Somehow now this fic has some one-sided Mitaka/Poe Dameron?
> 
> Also, this chapter gets a very light warning here. For what? Incest, of all things. JUST ABOUT the same level of incest as there was in the original Star Wars, so, you know, just to warn you guys. It’s nothing crazy or super sexual. Just. It’s there. A bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of ash.  
> A long time ago, in a place far away, I had beautiful paper bones.  
> They burned long ago  
> With the rest of me.

The sky was wet the day of Prestor’s graduation, but that was to be expected of Arkanis. The particle shield that the Academy had for the parade grounds kept the gathered crowd dry enough. Prestor managed not to cringe when the officiator read off his full name. There was no helping it, he supposed. The Commandant would not let Prestor leave off his first name on such a momentous occasion.

 

Prestor looked over the crowd, keeping control over his face as he did so. He would not show emotion in front of all these people. He refused. Still, it was nice to see his mother. Cedes Hux looked as radiant as ever, her dress a pale, elegant grey and her veil matching. Her dress was long-sleeved and high-necked, modestly covering all her tattoos save the ones on her face.

 

Bren was seated next to her. Prestor had been most worried about his brother not making it, to be honest, but it seemed his commanding officers didn’t want to sleight the Hux family. Even the dull cloudy sky couldn’t dampen Bren’s vibrant red hair, the shine in his slate-green eyes. He cut a sharp figure in his dress blacks, his cap held neatly in his lap. His face showed very little, but Prestor could feel his brother’s eyes on him, proud and watchful for weakness at the same time.

 

And Bren had brought someone with him. A fellow officer, Prestor had been told, if slightly lower-ranking than Bren. She was pale blonde and statuesque, and even when sitting Prestor could have sworn she looked taller even than Bren. She had a presence made for command. Prestor made a mental note to ask for her name, later.

 

The Commandant, of course, was on the low stage to acknowledge all of the graduates upon their receiving their diplomas. His cane was propped next to his chair while he stood. Prestor only narrowly succeeded in not rolling his eyes at his fellow graduate cadets behind him he heard whispering at how determined the Commandant was to stand without aid the whole ceremony. He couldn’t believe the idiots actually fell for his father’s act. Although there was more white in his hair than red, the man needed a cane as much as Prestor did. The long, black tube concealed a modified blaster for the Commandant to keep at his side at all times.

 

For a terrifying few heartbeats, Prestor thought he saw, on the edge of the gathering, the old vagrant man, smiling at him. When he blinked, though, the man was gone.

 

Prestor’s name was called again, and he stepped forward to receive his special recognition for his efforts, his academic performance that went above and beyond the call of what was required of him. He turned to salute his father, and the Commandant saluted back. Their eyes met for a moment. Prestor didn’t expect any true acknowledgement in those steel eyes, and he received none. Both of them knew the truth. That Prestor had achieved so much to _spite_ his father. That where Bren had been encouraged, praised, groomed with affection and given lofty expectations, Prestor had been given a void. The Commandant had granted nothing to his younger son, not even scorn.

 

A younger Prestor had lashed out, acted out. He had thrown tantrums and screaming fits and destroyed everything he could to get a reaction from his father. No reaction had ever come.

 

So it was that one day, on a rare day of sunshine on Arkanis, Prestor had sat atop a cliff overlooking the sea. He had contemplated throwing himself over the edge, perhaps taking a running start and seeing how far he could fly before he struck water. That would get him noticed, surely. But as he watched the waves move in and out, pounding against the ragged cliff face, he had come to a different decision.

 

Bren was the perfect son for his father.

 

Prestor would _surpass_ him. What better way to make a fool of the man who thought nothing of his second son?

 

The ceremony wrapped up with salutes, applause, and the firing of a single old-fashioned pulse-matter cannon, the wave of light streaking into the grey atmosphere above the school. It was all very tasteful and full of decorum and tradition and Prestor was glad it was all over.

 

Mingling with the assemblage afterwards netted a couple of surprises.

 

“Congratulations on the whole ‘best graduate ever’ thing, Hux.”

 

Prestor managed not to sneer at Mitaka. “It would seem an impressive feat, to someone like you,” he said. “Congratulations on completing the minimum requirements for graduation.”

 

Far too late to run away, Prestor saw who was with Mitaka.

 

“Well, if it isn't tall, dark, and handsome.” Dameron winked at Prestor.

 

Prestor regarded him with a cool gaze. “I’m surprised you're willing to settle for two out of three.”

 

Dameron laughed and shot him a wicked smile. “Oh, believe me, I wouldn’t be _settling_ for anything…”

 

This time, Prestor really couldn’t stop himself from indulging in a small eyeroll. Dameron’s relentless flirting would be bad enough on it’s own, but his flirting in front of an increasingly uncomfortable Mitaka was making Prestor want to slap the man. Hard. Possibly with a blunt instrument, such as a chair. Or a wampa.

 

Satisfied with that mental image, Prestor excused himself and tried to find him way around and through the gathering to find his brother.

 

“Congratulations, young Hux.”

 

Prestor turned at the sound of the voice. “Ah,” he said. The Count was smiling at him, mirthful. Prestor wanted to punch him in the throat. Why, today of all days... “It is good to see you again, Your Grace.”

 

“Who is your friend, Prestor?”

 

Prestor was watching the Count, so he saw the man’s reaction when he laid his eyes on Cedes Hux. He was shocked, and genuinely shaken at the sight of her, though he covered it quickly, schooling his features into something pleasant and neutral. “Mother, may I introduce you to Count Naberrie of Kwilaan, a recent acquaintance. Count, this is my mother, Knight-Duchess Cedes Hux.”

 

Delicately, almost tenderly, the Count took Cedes’ hand and brought it to his lips. “My Lady,” he said softly, something gentle and frightening in his eyes. “I have looked forward to meeting you for some time.”

 

Cedes must have seen the same thing Prestor did, for her next words held a strange softness as well. “You remind me of someone,” she said. “A person I met… when I was someone else.”

 

“May I ask who, my Lady?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice even quieter. “He died long ago.”

 

“I am sorry to hear that.”

 

Prestor looked at the both of them. Two forceful intelligences, meeting and circling each other, feeling each other out, but unwilling to engage quite yet, it seemed. However, engage they must, so it was Cedes who struck the first blow.

 

“I must thank you, your Grace,” she said. “Only a mother could understand the service you have done for my son and me.”

 

The Count was immobile for a moment, then cast a sharp look at Prestor. “I am sure I don’t quite know what you mean, my Lady.”

 

“Don’t play the fool, Count of Kwilaan,” Cedes said, her voice steady. “You may have your squadrons of spies and informants, but do not think yourself a player in this game just yet. It has only been three years since you left Naboo, yes? In so little time, do you really think yourself ready to enter these dangerous waters? Galactic politics can be quite vicious. You should take care.”

 

The Count offered her a short bow, conceding the victory to her. “As you command, my Lady.”

 

Cedes nodded in response. “Do not think you can use my son as a pawn again, Count. I will not be so forgiving if there is another… incident.”

 

His eyes wide, the Count nodded. “If you would excuse me, my Lady, young Hux.” He turned away, practically fleeing with his tail between his legs.

 

Prestor never tired of watching his mother put people in their place. He smiled at her. Her lips curved slightly in response. “You knew what happened on Corellia?” he asked.

 

She shrugged. “You didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I didn’t bring it up.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know many of the details, but I know enough. I know how that wretched man who fancies himself nobility just _happened_ to hear of your kidnapping and just _happened_ to be near enough to personally make a daring rescue to try and use you as a way to gain power.”

 

“Oh,” Prestor felt like he’d just taken a kick to his ribcage. “He was using me.”

 

Cedes looked up into Prestor’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “But in the reality in which we live, people try to use each other.” A frown flickered across her face. “I wasn’t able to find if he simply took advantage of the situation, or if he hired the kidnappers himself. It would help if you could identify anyone who was there.”

 

Prestor nodded. “Yes. Han Solo.”

 

His mother’s face went dangerously blank. “What.”

 

Prestor squared his shoulders to her. “The leader of the people who kidnapped me. His name was Han Solo.”

 

Cedes’ eyes were wide, and her face bloodless with rage. “I will hunt him down,” she whispered. “I will hunt down that gungan-faced nerf-herder and skin him alive. He... How _dare_ he lay his hands on you...”

 

“I take it you’ve heard the name before.”

 

She fixed her eyes on him. “Yes,” she said carefully. “And he should have known better than to cross my path again. He should have stayed safely dead where I thought he was.”

 

“Perhaps he was unaware that you are my mother.”

 

Oddly enough, that seemed to calm her down, somewhat. “Then he is even more of a fool than he used to be,” she murmured. “Perhaps you are right. I used a different name when I met him before. Perhaps he really doesn’t know.”

 

She lifted her chin and looked Prestor in the eyes once again. “If that is the case, then it may be in our best interests to find him and… _inform_ him.”

 

Prestor shivered. The way she said ‘inform’ left little ambiguity about her method of informing. “Did you see where Bren went? I wanted to talk to him.”

 

Cedes smiled slightly. “He was over near the fountain, last I saw him,” she said. “I like that young woman he brought with him.”

 

“Who is she?”

 

“A young Captain he’s been serving with. I believe her name is Phasma.”

 

“Thank you,” said Prestor, and leaned in to kiss her cheek through her veil. “I will talk to you more, later.”

 

“Don’t forget that tomorrow we are going to Coruscant. The Emperor is expecting us.”

 

“I haven’t forgotten.”

 

“Do you have an appropriate garment to wear for the occasion?”

 

There it was again. The codeword. She must be truly concerned about some unseen danger, if she was giving him the warning twice. “I’ll be ready,” Prestor said firmly.

 

It was easy to find Bren in the throng. After all, red was a rather rare hair color among humans.

 

“Brigadier-General Hux,” Prestor greeted his older brother with a sharp salute. “I’m most gratified that you could attend the commencement ceremony.”

 

Brendol Junior’s mouth nearly twitched into a smile, but like all the rest of their family, the small display of emotion was most likely calculated. “That’s a lot of big words for a three-year old. I’m impressed. Did you have to practice?”

 

Prestor felt his face flush. “I’ll be eighteen in a month,” he muttered under his breath. Bren always managed to get the first dig in. He used that four-year age gap to his advantage, although it didn’t seem _quite_ so vast as it once had, now that Prestor had graduated.

 

“No,” said Bren. “I’m sure I’ve been counting right. You’ll be turning three.”

 

“That joke hasn’t been funny since I was a child, Bren.”

 

“You still are a child, Pres.”

 

Bren’s friend the Captain joined in the conversation at that point. “Is there an inside joke I’m not getting?” she asked.

 

Bren flashed her a tight smile. “When we were much younger,” he explained. “I convinced Prestor that you only got older if, on your birthday, you were on the planet of your birth.”

 

“I figured it out,” Prestor snapped, ashamed of the story being told in front of one of Bren’s fellow officers.

 

“After you cried your way through your entire fifth birthday. Cedes couldn’t figure out why you were so upset.” Their family was never overly physical, but Bren brushed the backs of his knuckles on Prestor’s sleeve in a quick motion, soothing the sting of his teasing. “It’s one of my best childhood memories.”

 

“Ah,” said the Captain. “I see Lieutenant Yiska. If you two will excuse me…” She saluted Bren and nodded at Prestor, then made her way easily through the crowd away from them.

 

Prestor looked back at his brother, and realized with some degree of excitement that they were now the same height. Bren had always seemed too tall to ever catch up to. “How long will you be staying? Just until we go to Coruscant?”

 

Bren’s expression was controlled, as always, but Prestor knew his brother well. He saw Bren’s sudden unease. “No,” he said. “My orders are to stay for three weeks, until the _Finalizer_ can pick up the both of us from Coruscant.”

 

“That’s… unusual.”

 

“Yes,” said Bren, his eyes drilling into Prestor. “It is unusual.”

 

“The invitation to the palace,” Prestor murmured, his mind racing. “And you’re to stay for such a long time… Why?”

 

“So you’ve noticed, too,” Bren said, his voice pitched low and his pale eyes sharp. “We have to be careful, Pres. There’s something strange going on.”

 

“And we don’t have enough information to counter it, yet.”

 

“The first step to avoiding a trap is knowing of its existence.”

 

“We might have to walk into this trap to find out what it is,” whispered Pres. Bren’s face twitched briefly into a look of disgust.

 

“I hate walking into traps without at least knowing who set it.” He stepped back and reset his face to neutral. “Keep your eyes and mind open, Pres. We have to figure out what’s happening. Oh, and…” He smiled slightly. “Sleep well, tonight. We’re meeting with the most powerful man in the galaxy, tomorrow.

 

_The man of darkness stood in a empty room. Prestor had never seen the Imperial Palace in person, but he recognized the room’s design from a holovid he’d seen. It was night, and the lights of the capital city shone bright through the windows, leeching away the last traces of color and banishing the shadows to distant corners and the cloak of the man before him._

 

_“Hello again, spirit.”_

 

_Prestor couldn’t say anything. His mouth was shut, and he could not open it, no matter how hard he tried._

 

_“It is fitting, spirit, that you should appear to me, here at the end. I will not live to see another sunset. I am… far too old, now. And you are far too young.”_

 

_He turned, the ever-present mask hardly catching the light. The mask seemed more a wound than anything else. “You don’t speak this time, but that’s alright. There’s very little left for you to say to me.”_

 

_The man seemed to gather himself, his thoughts. “I have much I could tell you, but… I know less than I thought I did. I think that even if I told you all I know, even now, it would not be enough to save either of us.”_

 

_“You doomed us both.”_

 

_A breath hissed in an out of the mask before the man spoke again. “I doomed myself, that is certain. You still have the power to save yourself, if you are brave enough to use it. I…”_

 

_The man hesitated, but then spoke, as if the words had been forming behind a wall for years before breaking free. “I first saw you when I was but a child, first learning to meditate, to feel the Force. I would open my eyes and you would be there, those dreadful eyes of yours watching me from over my first master’s shoulder. He never saw you, but I did. You looked no older than myself, then. You were but a child. You likely thought it was nothing more than a dream. Still, I felt you could be… a friend perhaps. Maybe a guardian, a protector. I couldn’t have known… I couldn’t have known then what you really are to me. Jedi were forbidden attachments of such kinds as love, family. Those things were beyond what I could imagine…”_

 

_The room faded, and Prestor opened his eyes to dancing orange light._

 

_Prestor stood quietly facing the large fire, trying not to let Bren notice the tears on his face. Bren already knew. Bren knew Prestor well. But for once, there were no teasing words, no mocking of such a display of weakness. In fact, when Prestor turned to look, Bren quickly wiped at his own eyes._

 

_“What are we supposed to do, now?” said Bren, his voice softer and more pleading than Prestor had ever heard._

 

_“I don’t know,” Prestor whispered back. “You’re the one who’s good with planning things.”_

 

_Bren gave a bitter laugh. “I’m not the one who dreams of the future, Pres.”_

 

 _“Funny you should say that,” Prestor said. “I think this_ is _a dream.”_

 

 _Bren tore his eyes away from the blazing flame and grabbed Prestor’s arm. “If it is…” he said, his eyes fierce in the flickering orange light. “Listen to me, Pres. When you wake up, come find me. Tell me about your dreams._ Make _me listen to you. I…” his voice gave out for a moment. “You and I… we’re stronger together, and they knew that. They pulled on us and made us push each other away and we never should have let them, the Emperor and his-his-”_

 

_Bren shot a venomous look at the fire, and Prestor realized that among the coals, the flames licked at the shape of a very familiar mask._

 

_“Pres…”_

 

_A sensation like cold water ran down Prestor’s back. “They’re here,” he heard himself say. “I feel them. At the gates.”_

 

_They both turned their backs to the flames to face the dark. Prestor felt the handle of a weapon at his side. Without thought for what he was doing, he tugged it from his belt and ignited it. A sword of pure light, blue as heaven with the wrath to match._

 

_“You know,” Prestor began. “This is the saber that killed-”_

 

_“So help me Pres, if you say a single word about Anakin Skywalker right now I will shove that blade down your throat myself.”_

 

_Prestor snapped his mouth shut so hard his teeth clacked. “Sorry.”_

 

_Bren tugged his blaster from it’s holster and began checking it. “We’re probably not going to live through this.”_

 

_“You’re probably right.”_

 

_Bren looked up from his blaster and slowly, carefully lifted his hand to rest it on Prestor’s neck. The touch set his pulse racing, and when Bren tugged him closer to press a kiss to his forehead Prestor was shocked._

 

_Shocked that the kiss had landed there, of all places. It felt like being blessed._

 

_“I love you,” Bren whispered into his hair._

 

_“I know,” Pres whispered back, and then raised his own hand to tug his mask down into place._

 

When he woke, Prestor said nothing of dreams to his brother. He couldn’t quite look Bren in the eye.

 

The flight to Coruscant was boring, the conversation limited to the Commandant making somewhat miffed remarks about Cedes’ choice of attire. Finally, he broke down and said what he was thinking directly.

 

“Cedes,” said the Commandant. “I don’t think you should wear your veils to see the Emperor.”

 

She leveled a cool look at her husband. “Your opinion is of little importance in the matter of what I wear.”

 

“He will see it as an insult.”

 

“That is his choice.”

 

“The time for mourning is long past-”

 

“The time for mourning,” she cut her husband off. “Will last until my final breath. If the Emperor doesn’t wish to see anyone in mourning, then he should never have built that weapon of his. He should never have destroyed my homeland while I watched. If he does not wish to see me mourn, then he can turn his head away.”

 

The Commandant did not speak again. If they had been in a public transport, the argument likely would not have escalated. Cedes was always careful never to publicly humiliate her husband. But he had made the error of confronting her in private, Prestor noticed. An error he didn’t usually make.

 

The four members of the Hux family, Prestor thought, were being pinned in, herded together like animals being lead to a slaughter. And the tension of that fact was starting to affect them. The Commandant was picking fights he could not win, Cedes was more temperamental than usual, and Bren was withdrawing. He sat so still and so silent that Prestor had to look at him often to make sure he was still there. His brother hardly seemed to even be breathing.

 

As for Prestor, well, the increasingly unbearable dreams must be nothing more than a manifestation of his stress.

 

That was all they were, no matter how real they felt.

 

Prestor did not look out the transparisteel windows as the ship landed. He didn’t particularly want to see all of the city-planet of Coruscant. He hated feeling small.

 

The Imperial Palace was grand, a massive, blocky structure topped by five spires. Prestor had heard that it used to be some kind of temple, devoted to strange pagan deities that were swept away in the scientific enlightenment of the Empire. There still lingered some sense of that in the air. Prestor felt like he could taste electricity when he looked up at those spires.

 

The family all stood together in the antechamber to the Emperor’s throne room, the men automatically standing at parade rest while a protocol droid attended them and went over proper etiquette for meeting His Majesty. Prestor tuned most of it out. His mother had drilled him on such particulars from infancy, it seemed.

 

Then, after a lifetime and far too quickly, they were being escorted before the Emperor. The little family stood in a straight line, perfect in every particular of their appearance, even in the order in which they stood: The Commandant on the far right, with Cedes at his left hand, Bren to her left, and then Prestor at the far end. The Commandant had decided that that should be the order they always stand in for official functions, as it made the most sense, going by the family hierarchy. Prestor knew that that wasn’t the only reason. It kept Prestor from relying too much on Cedes’ slight cues to him. Also, it was balanced to look at, alternating them like that.

 

The throne room was massive, a grand display of art and design that Prestor was sure would be more moving if he knew anything about such things. The space was nearly empty, and their steps echoed back to them from the distant walls. Only a few nobles and servants stood against the walls, their faces unreadable, though Prestor still felt a sense of being examined, measured, weighed for usefulness or level of threat or whatever else these watchers hoped to glean from his appearance.

 

He told himself he didn’t care what they thought, and turned his attention to the Emperor himself.

 

Prestor had heard many times that the Emperor was human, or at least had been born that way. One wouldn’t guess it, looking at the hunched, wizened figure huddled on the great black throne. The Emperor looked almost corpse-like, his face wrinkled and grey with age, but his eyes gleamed orange-red as he peered out at his guests, a twisting malevolence seeping out from him.

 

“What is _he_ doing here?”

 

Prestor had never heard such naked loathing in his mother’s whispered voice before. He wished he could tell who she was looking at.

 

“Do not make a fool of yourself, Cedes,” said the Commandant, his voice lowered. “The Knight is the Emperor’s Right Hand, his most trusted and loyal servant. It only makes sense that he would be here.”

 

At the Emperor’s left hand stood his Speaker, robes violet and wrapped around a spindly frame and hood pulled down to conceal all but the figure’s mouth. At the Emperor’s right hand...

 

Ah. There it was. The mask that Prestor knew better than he knew his own face. The man made of darkness stood, a silent sentinel at the Emperor’s right hand. This was another dream.

 

_No. This is not a dream. Not this time. Not for me… and not for you, either._

 

That voice… it crawled in Prestor’s skull. It sounded different in his head. There was no mask to filter it, to make it sound artificial. In Prestor’s head, it was organic, dark, and rotting.

 

_At last. At last you appear before me, spirit. After so long… I had thought you were lost forever. But here you are._

 

Prestor clenched his jaw and sent out the thought as loud as he could. _Get out of my head!_

 

_You… fear me?_

 

Prestor held onto his wavering control with the tips of his fingers, digging his nails into his palms. _It is a natural reaction to being haunted by a creature in a mask._

 

The voice fell silent, and Prestor caught the end of the Speaker’s words on behalf of the Emperor. “...your retirement, Commandant.”

 

“Yes,” the Commandant said. “Seeing my sons attain such great achievements, and to have the younger graduate with such high honors… there could be no better capstone to my time at the Academy.”

 

This was the first Prestor had heard of any such thing. But that didn’t surprise him.

 

“And as for the young Brigadier-General,” the Speaker continued. “We have only heard praise from your commanding and fellow officers.”

 

Bren ducked a short, polished bow. “I can only strive to be worthy of such praise,” he said, his voice clear and firm. As he straightened, he shot a glance at Prestor. He looked a little worried. Was Prestor showing signs of… any of what he was feeling? The man of darkness was staring straight at him. He hadn’t even glanced at the others of the Hux family, not once. This _had_ to be a dream.

 

The Emperor’s lips moved slightly, a frail hand lifted a trembling finger. The Speaker leaned close to listen, and then straightened to deliver the Emperor’s words.

 

“His Exalted Majesty, Emperor Palpatine, wishes for me to delay no longer. I am to speak plainly as to the reason for your invitation here. The Emperor is dying.”

 

A hush fell over the room. Even the echoes seemed to hesitate to repeat what had just been said.

 

“Commandant Hux, as his Majesty has no living heirs of his own blood, he has decided that it will be one of your two sons, either Brendol Hux or Prestor Hux that will ascend to the galactic throne once he is gone. If they are both still alive when the Emperor moves on from this life to the next, then the matter of succession will be determined by the Speaker and the Knight, the Right and Left Hands of His Majesty. The Emperor has spoken. You may now depart.”

 

Somehow, the Hux family all managed to bow somewhat gracefully and make their retreat in silence from the great room. They had been dismissed, and there was nothing more to say.

 

Even once they walked through the doors, the Commandant’s voice cut through the ringing and pounding in Prestor’s head. “Do not speak until we have left the palace,” he said quietly, “These walls can listen.”

 

The four of them had nearly made it out of the palace when heavy booted steps approached behind them.

 

“Spirit.”

 

Prestor felt himself halt in his tracks, and unwillingly turned to face something that was not exactly a face. There was something deeply unsettling about the man of shadows, and that was only magnified in reality, only a few feet away. The light in a room grew dimmer in his presence.

 

That eerie, mechanized breathing seemed to hollow out Prestor’s chest. He was beginning to hate the sound of it more than anything else in the universe. “What is your name?” the man asked. “Your _full_ name?”

 

Prestor stared defiantly at where the man’s eyes would be if he were truly human. “My name is Ben Prestor Hux.”

 

Another few, slow breaths. Prestor felt like the rest of reality had fallen away. He had no family with him. There was only himself and the silhouette of the man in front of him. “You will follow me.” It was strange. The machine voice that hissed through the mask was compelling, so much that Prestor found himself moving to obey without thought.

 

“Stop!”

 

They both turned at the ringing command of Cedes Hux. She was glaring at the man with a hatred so pure it felt like fire just to be near it. She walked up and took Prestor’s hand in her own.

 

“You will not speak to my son ever again,” she said, her demand handed down as if from deity to a supplicating priest. Even the masked man seemed swayed, since he did nothing to keep her from leading Prestor away.

 

“It has been a long time since last we met, Princess.”

 

Cedes froze, her back rigid as she cast her words back over her shoulder. “You must be mistaken, Lord Vader,” she said. “I am no Princess. You made certain of that.”

 

Prestor followed his mother, and tried to ignore how hard he was shaking. It was possible she didn't noticed. Her hands were trembling, too.

 

“Did he hurt you?” she whispered. “Threaten you?”

 

Prestor couldn't tell her about the dreams. He still wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t one. “No,” he said. He had never seen his mother afraid, before, but she was, now. He knew she hated being called by her former title, the one she had lost in the test-firing of the Death Star so long ago. “Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” she said. “Come. Your father and brother are waiting for us.”

 

Prestor caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror as she led him out. He looked like… like a frightened child. His face had gone white as snow, making his dark eyes and hair stand out in even greater contrast than normal.

  
“It’s alright,” whispered Cedes, feeling his rising panic. “I won’t ever let anything happen to you, dear one. You’re my only hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to save the remnants of your paper bones,  
> But you let a demon lick up the ashes.  
> There’s nothing more I can do, beloved.  
> I miss you.


	6. A Ship of Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps all of Prestor's best friendships would be like this. Never speaking a word, never truly meeting, only a passing from a great distance. There was no opportunity for them to hate him, this way.
> 
>  
> 
> So, yeah. Standing warning from now on for, um, incest. Between Prestor and Bren. Yeah. Go me, sinking the kylux ship to new lows. It's pretty freaking mild this chapter, and I'll warn you guys in future chapters when it starts to, ah, get to be more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of iron.  
> I was given paper bones, a treasure I didn’t deserve.  
> I crushed them in the teeth of my metal-mind.

The Commandant led them through the doorway of the spacious penthouse. “Here we are,” he said, only the barest hint of frustration seeping through his voice. “Our home away from home, which the Emperor has graciously appointed for our family’s use for the next few standard weeks.

 

Cedes swept her eyes over the space, throwing back her veil and making her way over to the tall windows draped in gold. “Hm,” she hummed softly to herself. “Such a cozy nest for wayfarers such as ourselves.”

 

Prestor stiffened, his shoulders drawing in as if expecting a blow. Another one of his mother’s codewords. Wayfarer. We are being observed/listened to.

 

The Commandant flashed her a look that Prestor read as somewhere between annoyance and gratitude. “It’s getting late,” he said. “We should have dinner and get ready for sleep. Reconvene at 0800 hours to discuss… recent events. Prestor, see to dinner, and make sure there’s no shellfish in what is brought for us. Brendol, take inventory; be certain the droids didn’t lose any of our things in the trip.”

 

“Yes, sir,” the brothers replied in unision. Prestor looked at Bren again, but Bren seemed to be avoiding his eyes.

 

Dinner was eaten in near silence, only the occasional word about the food or the accommodations, all mild and inoffensive. It rubbed at Prestor like sandpaper. He sat at the Commandant’s left and his mother’s right, across from Bren. Bren did not raise his eyes from his plate the entire meal, and he didn’t speak at all until he cleaned the plate of every crumb and softly excused himself to the room he was to share with Prestor.

 

Feeling slightly abandoned, Prestor tried to ignore the tension left at the table, building under the clink of silverware and the buzz of service droids. He could feel both of his parents thinking, processing the events of the day. Cedes, he knew, would do whatever it took to keep he and Bren both safe. She would wait, and gather more information before she acted. And when she acted, it would be without hesitation, absolute and certain that her choice was correct and would lead to the best outcome.

 

The Commandant, on the other hand… Prestor was not as sure of. Brendol Hux Sr was an astute man, and not to be trifled with. He was assembling the pieces in his mind, already. While Cedes was content to wait a bit longer, the Commandant tended to be more aggressive, just like Prestor. The wheels were already turning in his head. The world was a gameboard, and the Commandant was playing every move through in his mind, determining what pieces he wanted to move in what order to achieve the desired outcome.

 

The only thing that frightened Prestor about this was that he had no idea what the desired outcome was, exactly.

 

Probably Bren on the Imperial Throne.

 

Maybe with Prestor gone, a terrible tragedy that would strengthen Bren’s stability as Emperor.

 

Prestor hoped he was wrong about that. He knew he was not his father’s favorite, but he hoped-

 

“Prestor.”

 

Prestor startled. He hadn’t noticed how he had been staring at the Commandant. “Sorry,” he said ducking his head.

 

“There’s no need for that, boy,” the Commandant said, waving away Prestor’s apology. “I wanted to congratulate you, honestly, on your achievements at the academy. All of your instructors had nothing to say but praise for your effort and hard work.”

 

Prestor couldn’t help but glance at Cedes. She was acting like she wasn’t listening, but she most certainly was.

 

“Thank you… sir.”

 

The words burned at his tongue. How many times had he yearned for some kind of fatherly approval as a child? Five years ago? Last year? Last month? The words were ashes, now. They meant nothing.

 

He made himself think. Worse, he tried to make himself think like the Commandant. He was attempting to manipulate Prestor, for certain, but from what stance? And towards what end?

 

For a moment, he imagined he could see himself through the Commandant’s eyes, all awkward limbs and sensitive eyes and a truly unfortunate nose and ears. Weak. A flaw. A blemish to be brushed aside and forgotten. The Commandant’s fear was that this sad boy would carry on the grand Hux family legacy, with imperfect metal forging the chain.

 

As certain as he knew of his own place in the universe, the Commandant was certain of the places of his sons. Bren was immaculate. Prestor was so foolish that…

 

That the Commandant had to tell him to do the opposite of what he wanted for the boy. Prestor was so _emotional,_ so _irrational_ that the Commandant had to all but forbid him to succeed in order to make sure that Prestor actually put effort into school. He had to praise him now, tell him that he would make a great ruler, that the throne was all but his, to make sure that Prestor would refuse to even try.

 

No.

 

No, deeper than that. Where the Commandant barely let the thought form at all…

 

If Prestor refused to attempt to take the galactic throne…

 

Then he wouldn’t kill Bren to get there.

 

Prestor stared down at the blank white porcelain on the table in front of him. Was that really what the Commandant thought? Or was that just what Prestor thought he thought? His head hurt.

 

The Commandant was speaking again, but the words didn’t matter. Emotion catching and tightening at his shoulders, Prestor pushed back his chair and stood abruptly, halting his father’s words.

 

“I…” _Don’t look at mother. He will think less of your words if you do._ “Sir Commandant, thank you for your kind words.”

 

Prestor stared into durasteel eyes. “I will do everything, _everything_ in my limited power to help Bren ascend to the throne of the Emperor, if that is what he wants. I will not do it for you.”

 

Tilting his face slightly towards Cedes, he whispered his excuses and made a strategic retreat to his room, to where Bren was. He was not running away.

 

Bren looked up, finally _looking_ at Prestor for what seemed the first time in a very long day. “I’m kind of disappointed, Pres. I was hoping for a much bigger tantrum than that. A few smashed dishes at the very least.”

 

“I don’t throw tantrums.” Prestor bit at his lower lip rather than let it stick out in what Bren would call a pout. Bren gave him a quick rare smile and turned back to his side of the room.

 

 _When you wake up, come find me. Tell me about your dreams._ Make _me listen to you._

 

The dream memory struck at Prestor. He let himself watch Bren move about for a moment, shifting things in the room to where he wanted them. If asked, Bren would say he was simply being ergonomic, and Prestor would say he was being compulsive.

 

Prestor was about to say something, he opened his mouth to confess his dreams, but then another memory came to him.

 

_“I love you.”_

 

_“I know.”_

 

He could feel his ears turning red as he switched his attention to the task of getting ready for bed, overwhelmingly aware of the rustling of clothing behind him as Bren began to do the same. What the hell had _that_ been about? He supposed it was normal to feel brotherly affection, even love, but neither he nor Bren had ever spoken any words of such things to each other. It was not in their nature. Maybe it was the desperation they had both felt…

 

Not wishing to think any further down those lines, Prestor thought of another detail from the dream. One that maybe, just maybe, could help him figure out what the dreams were, how real they were.

 

“Bren?” he said. “Do you know who Anakin Skywalker is?”

 

Bren went quiet for an instant. Prestor could see him in his head, his eyes flicking back and forth as he mentally scanned through the text of his memory.

 

“I’ve never come across the name, sorry. Why?”

 

Prestor shrugged. “You have a better memory for military history than I do.” It was a good enough reason to offer, and once it was spoken it felt right.

 

The penthouse was quite nice, really. Prestor was used to much less space, and he got the feeling that Bren was, too. It was almost too much air around them, too much freedom. The two of them could have lain lengthwise between their two beds without touching, and with room to spare. They even had their own ‘fresher, which Bren claimed for his use before Pres could get to it. (Prestor may have resorted to sticking random items under the door to annoy him in retaliation. The muttered “childish clod” he got in return was worth it.)

 

Prestor felt restless, incomplete, like there was something else he should be doing right now. He noticed that the room had its own balcony, and slid open the doors to step out into the city night.

 

They balcony was unbelievably high. Rather than looking down and feeling ill, or up and feeling insignificant, Prestor chose to examine what he could see at eye level.

 

The massive cityscape teemed with motion, transports and ships and people walking along balconies and walkways and elegant bridges. Just across from Prestor, in the next building over, he could see two people standing out on their own balcony, a man and a woman. They were speaking with each other, friendly and easy, delighting in each other’s company. Just from looking at them, there seemed to be no romantic sort of relationship, or at least little to no sexual attraction. They were good friends, perhaps best friends, their time together enjoyed and cherished as easy and simple. Sure, they had problems and struggles in their lives, everyone did, but for the moment they could forget, and just… be together.

 

Prestor wondered what it was like to have that.

 

The woman looked out, and even from that distance, Prestor felt it when her eyes met his. She was like his mother, he thought, strangely. Except that where Cedes was fire, this woman was water. Her entire being seemed to light up when she saw him, as if he were an old friend, someone she had been looking forward to seeing. The man followed her gaze to Prestor, and they both raised their hands to wave a small greeting. A wordless companionship across city lanes.

 

Prestor attempted to wave back as easily and friendly as they did. He felt awkward, but they seemed to accept it, and him, without any further question.

 

“Who are you waving at?”

 

Prestor turned his head to see Bren’s face peering out the door. “The people over there.”

 

Bren appeared very unimpressed. “Come in and close the door. I can’t sleep with you out here and all that noise coming in.”

 

Turning back to his distant, nameless new friends, Prestor went to wave a farewell to them, but they were already gone.

 

_Prestor was walking down a long bright hallway, slightly behind and to the right of Bren. His body felt heavy, his head nearly too much for his neck to hold up. Every step was like wading through thick, clinging mud, weighing him down more with every step._

 

_Bren glanced back at him, briefly, wondering at Prestor’s slower than usual pace. He was angry, Prestor could see, his eyes alight with a fury like sunfire. The fury suited him, as did his crisp militaristic clothing and the slender gold circlet on his brow._

 

_Finally, they reached a door, and Bren led them through, then whirled on Prestor as soon as the door closed behind them._

 

_“What was that about?” Bren snapped. “Are you trying to embarrass me? Make me look weak? What are you playing at?”_

 

_Prestor shook his head, trying to clear the sludge clogging up his mind. Nothing was clear, everything shrouded. He felt unbearably weak. “I…” he said. “I don’t know…”_

 

_His voice sounded strange, too, but he didn’t have time to figure it out before Bren stepped right up to him, glaring and sneering._

 

_“Take off the mask.”_

 

_Prestor’s mind froze, but his mouth spoke for him. “What do you think you’ll see?”_

 

_“My idiot younger brother,” snarled Bren. “But I’d like to make sure.”_

 

_“It doesn’t matter. Your brother is dead. He was weak and foolish, so I destroyed him.”_

 

_“Pres-”_

 

_“That is not my name.”_

 

_“We’ve been over this, Pres. I will call you whatever you want in public, but I will bite out my own tongue before I call you Kylo Ren when we are alone.”_

 

_The room was spinning, and Prestor lifted heavy arms to grasp weakly at his face. Except his face wasn’t there. There was only a mask, suffocating him and swallowing him whole. It was devouring him to spit out only his teeth and bones. He tore at it, frantic to get it off. He couldn’t see-_

 

_“Bren?” he whimpered. “I can’t get it off! I can’t!”_

 

_He was panicking, hysterical. “Bren!” He screamed. “Bren, help me! Please!”_

 

_“Pres!”_

 

_“Bren! Help me!”_

 

“Pres!”

 

The screams tearing at his vocal cords stopped, suddenly, twitched, as if beheaded. Prestor opened his eyes to Bren’s face hovering over him, wearing his worry openly.

 

“It was a dream, Pres. You’re fine.”

 

A hiccup of swallowed tears escaped him. “I’m always dreaming,” Prestor sobbed, curling towards his brother. “Even when I’m awake. It’s never finished.”

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

Bren turned to face Cedes in the doorway. “We’re fine,” he said, his voice calm. “Pres was just having another of those night terrors.”

 

Cedes frowned. “I thought you said those weren’t bothering you anymore, Pres.”

 

“Clearly he was lying,” Bren said. “Pres, did you bring your medication?”

 

A new wave of frantic, tearless sobs stole Prestor’s breath. “No,” he said. “I don’t like it. It makes my mind all… wrong.”

 

Bren sighed and turned back to Cedes. “I’ll take care of him,” he said. “You can go back to sleep. I’ll take care of him, Cedes.”

 

“I know you will, Bren. Thank you.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight,” Prestor whispered, but he wasn’t sure if his mother heard.

 

Bren sighed again. “You’re such an idiot,” he said, his voice soft. He seemed too sleepy to notice how he was soothing his hand over Prestor’s shoulder and through his sweat-damp hair.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Bren kept the smile from reaching the surface, but it was a near call. “Just go back to sleep, Pres. You’ll be fine.”

 

Prestor eased back against his pillow, his body still shaking and trying to curl up to protect himself. “They’re not night terrors,” he insisted. “They’re just dreams.”

 

“I’ve done enough psych reading to know the difference, Pres. In normal dreams, you don’t scream yourself awake or think that they are real for hours and days after.” He thought for a minute. Prestor felt he could see him pull out different files in his head, searching their contents for what he needed. Prestor could watch Bren think over a problem for hours.

 

Now _that_ was a strange thought.

 

“Would it help,” Bren asked. “If you told me about your dream?”

 

_Tell me about your dreams. Make me listen._

 

Prestor waited until he felt nearly ready to fall back asleep, Bren still perched on the edge of the bed, ready to fall with him. “I dreamed that you were Emperor.”

 

Bren really did smile, this time, the dark room nearly swallowing it. “Was I really that frightening as Emperor?”

 

Pres shook his head into his pillow. “That wasn’t the nightmare part.”

 

“What was?”

 

“I dreamed… I dreamed that I was your Knight, your Right Hand. And…”

 

“And?”

 

“And my face wasn’t mine, anymore. There was only a mask.”

 

_There was nothing. Prestor sat on the hard, rough rock and looked out over a great, aching nothing of of dust and sand and heat. Just behind him, sitting so they were back-to back, was the man made of darkness._

 

_Darth Vader, he knew, now._

 

_That name didn’t seem to fit, though. Prestor couldn’t see the man behind him, but he could feel him shaking, weeping. Darth Vader didn’t seem capable of crying when Prestor had met him before. But the man at his back was crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think._

 

_He was crying for himself, and for his mother, and for the people he had just killed, their blood staining the sand. No rain would ever wash it away, here. It would stay forever in this burning hell, coloring the stone reddish-brown. Perhaps one day in a thousand years scientists would wonder at the concentration of iron in this patch of wilderness._

 

_But probably not._

 

_“Will I lose you, too?”_

 

_Prestor knew the man was talking to him, wondering if the guardian spirit he cherished would leave, now that he had given in to something he should not have, if he would lose his guide and compass as the light began to fade._

 

_“No,” whispered Prestor._

 

The morning dawned bright, and Prestor felt like he had slept well for the first time in years. He was overflowing with limitless energy, harassing Bren to the point where the uncaffeinated Brigadier-General looked ready for murder. Breakfast was fairly civil, everyone other than Prestor still gearing up for the day. The Commandant poured over news reports and messages from the Academy on Arkanis, while Cedes sorted through messages that were painfully innocent in their wording and were signed with names like “Black and Gold” and “869428160-PDN”.

 

Feeling unusually playful, Prestor ruffled his brother’s hair out of place as Bren was drinking his caf. “Your hair’s messed up, Bren,” he grinned.

 

Bren shot Prestor a glare that would have destroyed an entire star-system. “Keep your greasy fingers out of my hair, you wart-faced bantha,”

 

Prestor frowned. He was sensitive about the moles dotting his face and Bren knew that. “As you wish, you weasel-nosed sycophant.”

 

“Walking shit-basket.”

 

“Pomade on a stick.”

 

“Big-eared nerf-face.”

 

“Good morning! My name is Bren and I have an entire star destroyer shoved up my ass.”

 

“Sorry, my name is Prestor and my head is far too large to fit through that doorway. It’s managed to accumulate its own atmosphere.”

 

“Well, _my_ head is shaped like an unmodified YT-1300 freighter. Including the gunner chair. See this goiter?”

 

“Ha! Lucky you! Because _my_ head looks like a Hutt tried to face-fuck a glimin and got stuck!”

 

“My shoulder pads are glorious and help me compensate for my tiny dick!”

 

“How remarkable,” murmured Cedes, effectively halting the rising tide of increasingly-colorful insults. “You two must be gluttons for punishment, to use such language in front of your mother.”

 

Feeling appropriately cowed, Prestor turned back to his breakfast. Bren didn’t show any hint of discomposure, sipping at his caf as cool and collected as ever.

 

“I believe I noticed a gymnasium only three floors below us,” Cedes continued. “Perhaps the two of you should make use of it. We would hate to see either of you fall out of _fighting form._ ”

 

Prestor handed his utensils to the service droid. “How about it, Bren? Do you want to go spar?”

 

Bren raised his eyebrows and shot a glance at Cedes and then Prestor, clearly asking if Prestor was going to let her boss him around like that. Prestor really didn’t care; his skin was crawling with energy and if he kept it pent-up he felt he would go supernova. Perhaps this time there really would be a few broken dishes.

 

“Come _on_ , Bren,” he smiled. “Or are you scared? That now that I’m as big as you you won’t be able to beat me anymore?”

  
Still not operating at full capacity to suppress emotional reactions, Bren huffed and rolled his eyes. “If you go into a fight with an attitude like that, you will end up splattered on the floor.” He drained the rest of his cup and set it down neatly, almost daintily, to contrast with the sudden thirst for a solid contest in his eyes. “Very well, Pres. Let’s see how much you’ve learned in the last year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were granted paper bones to protect  
> And instead you bruised and broke them.  
> Do you feel the weight of your sins?  
> They are crawling on your back.


	7. In My Left Hand I Hold Four Red Moons, pt I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Han Solo is your moral compass, something has gone wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of morning.  
> I love my paper bones. The light can shine through them, soft and loving.  
> Free and wild and cherished, the wind holds me up  
> So that I can dance without fear  
> Across the sky.

The gymnasium was rather nice, large and spacious with every piece of equipment imaginable that could possibly help flabby Core Worlders feel better about their bodies.

 

Prestor set about wrapping his wrists and stretching out his limbs. Bren did the same, but he roamed around the room as he did so, taking note of every small detail. Belatedly, Prestor realized that it was probably a habit that Bren had picked up from actually being in real life-or-death fights where knowledge of the surroundings could give him that vital edge over his opponents. Prestor satisfied himself with walking around the perimeter of the sparring mat.

 

Prestor raised his fists and got into his stance, loose and relaxed, body humming with anticipation. The other cadets at the Academy had been easy pickings, but…

 

He had never been able to get the edge on Bren.

 

Sparring with Bren, even play-fighting as children, had always been a delight, even though Prestor hated losing over and over again. It was the one time that Bren showed his real emotions plainly. Sure, it was usually a tactic to mess with his opponent, but those emotions were real. Prestor could feel all of Bren’s confidence, all of his aggression, discipline, control, his fire.

 

Right away, Bren gifted him with a cocky, lop-sided grin. “Are they still teaching cadets to use the nabahil stance? Pathetic. It’s awfully kind of you, though, to give me such a clear shot at breaking your nose.”

 

 _Don’t let him get in your head_ Prestor told himself as Bren settled himself across the mat, raising his fists higher than Prestor had been taught, his knuckles brushing against his bangs. His left foot slid back, and he lowered his body into a wide defensive position.

 

Prestor quirked an eyebrow. “That scared of me?”

 

Bren’s only reaction was slight smirk. “Whenever you’re ready, Pres.”

 

 _Move your feet, cadet._ That was the one thing that Prestor still struggled with, was keeping his weight light on his feet, keeping ready to move in a flash of thought. His instructors always said that would get him in trouble one day; if his steps stayed so heavy and grounded, it would be far too easy for an opponent to knock that from under him. Shifting forward on the balls of his feet, Prestor moved, not towards Bren, but to the right, forcing Bren to shift and face him. They began circling each other, forward and back, almost like a choreographed dance. Bren looked cool and calm, a lazy smile on his face and his eyes half-closed. He was watching carefully, though. Prestor could feel those pale eyes taking in every shift, every step, every twitch of muscle, content to watch not just for an opening, but for the _best_ opening.

 

He must have gotten that from Cedes.

 

Finally, Prestor moved forward, and Bren didn’t retreat. Eager, Prestor jabbed his fists a few times at Bren, a couple of strikes at his face, and one that connected with Bren’s ribs. Bren hissed out a slight breath, absorbing the blow with minimum effort.

 

“You punch like grandmother,” Bren said, stepping back out of striking distance.

 

“Didn’t you ever get one of her backhands?” Prestor smiled back. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 

Now that they had exchanged their opening blows, Bren changed his stance to something less defensive, opening up his body to more blows, but enabling him to strike harder as well. Prestor moved in quickly, darting forward to swing a few quick jabs and then an elbow at the side of Bren’s head. At the last moment, Bren shifted, and the blow glanced off the top of his head rather than landing on his ear or temple. Then Prestor felt a small bruising pain on his left thigh.

 

Prestor couldn’t help the slight wince. Bren had seen his move coming, and had used it to his advantage, kicking his shin against Prestor’s thigh. Prestor took a deep breath and backed off. One kick wasn’t going to do much, but-

 

Again, Bren kicked at him, with such intention on his face that Prestor had to let him, couldn’t move to block or dodge it without opening himself up for a strike that would knock him out cold. One kick wouldn’t do much, maybe bruise a little the next day, but each successive blow to that muscle would weaken it, a mallet striking at a dry log over and over until it broke.

 

Prestor had to end this fight fast, he realized. He was wearing himself out, but Bren had barely even broken a sweat, his attacks coming faster and stronger with every advance, forcing Prestor to be more defensive than he was really comfortable with.

 

Prestor noticed his arms shaking, his hands beginning to drop just a few centimeters as the fight wore on. That was no good, that would leave him open to-

 

Prestor saw the move coming, but he couldn’t get his hands back up in time. It was such a basic combination, too, _jab, jab, cross,_ two fast strikes at his face to distract him and then the powerful swing at his jaw to finish him off. Prestor felt the world tipping and he tried to clear his head in time, but Bren was on him mercilessly. He moved in close, a strike at Prestor’s mouth leaving him with the taste of blood, and then a knee hooked behind Prestor’s leg, knocking him to the ground like a felled tree.

 

Frantic, Prestor tried to keep Bren from closing in with his legs, but Bren flicked aside the attempt like it was nothing and dove down to rain heavy punches. The worst part was, Prestor could see and feel every strike just before Bren moved, but his arms were too tired, he had no energy left to defend himself correctly. It was like being hit twice for every blow Bren gave him, his brother contemptuously brushing Prestor’s feeble blocks away to leave Prestor’s head ringing.

 

When his vision started to swim and turn red, Prestor finally tapped at Bren’s leg three times. In an instant, Bren was off him, and holding out a hand to help him. “You alright, Pres?”

 

After a couple of gasping breaths, Prestor took Bren’s hand and pulled himself to his feet. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

 

“Don’t start sulking. Your face will get stuck like that.”

 

A flash, so fast it left Prestor’s head spinning all over again. It was like he was in Bren’s skin for a split second, feeling everything. He felt the sweat cooling the back of Bren’s neck, and the fabric of the mat under his feet. He could taste salt and copper. And he could feel the swirl of emotions that Bren kept from reaching the surface. It was… loud. Frustration and pride and jealousy ( _jealousy?_ ) and affection and territorial rage and _heat_ and a strange, aching, wordless, restless longing that Bren had no way of hoping to cope with in any healthy way.

 

None of it showed on Bren’s face at all. The only sign that he’d even been fighting was how red his neck and cheeks were. He stepped away from Prestor and bent over to pluck a towel from the bench along the wall.

 

“I’m going to stay and work out some more,” he said calmly. “Maybe lift some weights. Are you going to stay?”

 

He looked back at Prestor, and this time the flash was softer, less intense, but it lasted a bit longer. This time all Prestor felt was the heat and the longing.

 

Part of Prestor was certain he was just imagining what his brother felt.

 

Part of him hoped that his feelings were right.

 

A very, very small part of him had never been more sure of any truth before this.

 

A tiny part, a part he quickly pushed away into silence, wanted to tug at that heat and longing, to pull them out of Bren to the surface to see what they would look like there, written on his face.

 

“No,” said Prestor. “No, I’m going to… go. And shower. And…” Bren quirked an eyebrow, his eyes cold again. “I’ll see you later.”

 

“Alright,” shrugged Bren. “I’ll see you later, too.”

 

Back at the penthouse, Prestor felt drained and restless all at once. His parents were out, and the droids told him that Cedes had gone shopping and that the Commandant was meeting with a friend for lunch. Prestor showered, with real hot water, washed his hair and face. Sitting at his personal console he'd brought from school, he tried looking up the name “Anakin Skywalker” on the holonet, but nothing came up. He also tried just “Anakin” and “Skywalker” separately, and still nothing surfaced. It was… a little odd, actually, that there were no results at all. With how expansive the Empire was, couldn’t there be at least one person out of all those trillions who went by either of those names, or named a ship something like that, or a settlement?

 

His body and mind were too freshly tired from the sparring match with Bren to focus for long, so he made a mental note to go digging deeper later tonight and stood from the desk and stretched out his tired, bruised muscles.

 

Unsure of what he wanted to do with all this strange free time, Prestor stepped out onto the balcony and nearly jumped out of his skin. The man from yesterday, the one he had seen talking to the young woman, was standing only a few feet away, for all the world looking as if Prestor was the intruder.

 

“What the hell?” Prestor heard himself say. “What are you doing? This is-”

 

“Ah,” said the man. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you, young one. I was just keeping an eye on you, but I keep managing to forget how perceptive you are.”

 

“Perceptive?” snapped Prestor. “You’re standing on my balcony! You’re trespassing!”

 

The man gave a light laugh, even that sound managing to carry his polished Coruscant accent. “Again, I apologize, young one. It is far past time for me to introduce myself.”

 

Prestor’s mind fed him an image, a memory. An old vagrant man, white hair and beard and ratted old robes, staring at him through pale morning grey from across parade grounds.

 

“Yes,” said the man. “I should have said something back then, as soon as you saw me. You were in such a hurry, though, and there were enough people nearby that I didn’t want you to raise too much of a clamor. Much like you are doing, now.” He swept an elegant bow that was completely at odds with his appearance. “My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

 

“Right,” said Prestor. “The General from the Clone Wars. And I’m Darth Vader.”

 

“Not yet, you’re not.”

 

It was the way he said it, so matter-of-fact, like it really was something that could happen. Prestor felt like he’d fallen into a freezing lake, the chill that swept over him was so intense.

 

“You can’t be Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Prestor said. “I’m named after Obi-Wan Kenobi. I know all about Obi-Wan Kenobi; I wrote several papers on the man. General Kenobi died in battle shortly after the Empire was formed.”

 

The man gave a sad smile, and Prestor had to admit that the man looked a great deal like those old propaganda holovids he had poured over, if just a bit older, thin strands of white in his neat beard and hair. “So many lies you’ve been told,” he said quietly. “But yes, in one aspect you are completely right. I left behind my physical body a long time ago, before you were even born.”

 

Prestor quirked an eyebrow. “So you’re, what, a ghost? You look pretty solid.”

 

The man shrugged. “If ghost is a word that makes you feel better, then you are free to use it.”

 

“Pres?”

 

Prestor looked back at the sliding door. He hadn’t heard Bren walk into their room. “Yeah, Bren?”

 

“Who are you talking to?”

 

Bren obviously could see the man from where he was standing, but he didn’t look over, didn’t even glance at the man. Prestor allowed himself a very very small sigh. “The ghost of General Kenobi, apparently.”

 

Bren frowned. “I didn’t hit you in the head _that_ hard, did I? Is it before or after lunch?”

 

“I don’t have a concussion, Bren. Go shower. You smell like wampa shit.”

 

“How do you know what wampa shit smells like?” Bren grinned, still enjoying his post-victory high.

 

“Shut up.”

 

After Bren disappeared into the ‘fresher, Prestor turned back to the person he decided to think of as a stress-induced hallucination. His dreams were just spilling out into the waking world.

 

Kenobi was staring at him with a small degree of alarm on his face. “Mercy,” he said quietly. “You are so much like your father it is _actually_ terrifying.”

 

Prestor didn’t know what to do with that sentence. No one had ever said such a thing to him before. “What do you want, _General_ , besides making me look crazy and giving me heart attacks?”

 

The ghost or whatever smiled. “I’m here to help.”

 

“Help what?”

 

“Your family, mostly. It’s what I do.”

 

Prestor snorted. “You don’t make any sense, old man.”

 

“I make exactly as much sense as you want me to, young one. There’s something you need to do.” The man straightened his shoulders. “Danger is closing in from all sides, now. The smallest mistake could send you down the path to death or the Dark side.”

 

“Could you be a bit more cryptic, just for me?”

 

Kenobi gave Prestor a flat, unimpressed look. “Stop thinking you’re funny. You’re not.” He rubbed at his forehead and muttered under his breath. “Force save me from Skywalkers and their attitude problems.”

 

“Skywalkers?” Prestor latched onto the word.

 

This time, Kenobi looked at him like he had asked to stick his hand in liquid nitrogen. “You… you went looking up Anakin Skywalker… on an unsecured transmission in the center of the Imperial capital. Yes. That would be exactly the kind of mistake that would get you killed, yes.”

 

Prestor shrugged crookedly. “Well, sorry for trying to figure out what the hell is going on. No one seems willing to tell me.”

 

“We can fix _that_ , at least,” Kenobi said, stroking his beard. “You’ve got an empty afternoon ahead of you. Go visit the Count of Kwilaan. He can answer many of your questions, even if he is a slippery slathbar. Ask him pointed enough questions, don’t let him talk his way around you, and tell him I sent you. He _should_ be willing to help you.”

 

“What if he isn’t?”

 

“Stop questioning me.”

 

“No. What if he won’t even see me? I haven’t been invited.”

 

“He handed you all of his contact information, including the address of his estate here on Coruscant. He will see you. In fact…” Kenobi gave a small smile. “Don’t give him any warning; don’t comm ahead. The look on his face when he senses you coming will be priceless.”

 

Prestor took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m arguing with a ghost. Clearly I’ve gone completely insane.”

 

“You are not insane, young one. You will get the proof you crave soon enough.”

 

Prestor closed his eyes, just for a moment, to center himself. When he opened them, the ghost was gone.

 

Faced with the prospect of a long, empty, dull afternoon. Prestor weighed his options. He could stay in his room and read and study and not obey the voices in his head telling him to do things. That was definitely something he could do. That would be fine. Or he could actually do what his misfiring neurons were telling him to do and go visit the Count.

 

He didn’t have to just go because the hallucination told him to. Cedes had all but stated that the Count was not to be trusted, that he wanted to use Prestor in some way. Well, with all of the threats towards the Hux family at the moment, maybe at least one could be dealt with. That was a logical course of action, if risky.

 

Prestor dressed in the nicest civilian-esque clothes he had and attempted to wrangle his unruly hair into something presentable. He ate some lunch and let Bren know the address to where he was going.

 

“If I’m not back and you haven’t heard from me by…” he glanced at the chronometer. “1500 hours, I’ve probably been kidnapped and you should come and get me, or at least alert someone.”

 

Bren gave him a long, bland look. “Have fun with that,” he said.

 

At least reassured that someone knew where he was going and when to expect him back, Prestor set off for the urban estate of Count Naberrie of Kwilaan.

 

As the transport pulled up to the entrance, Prestor couldn’t help but gape a little bit. It seemed the Count had bought out the top five stories of this building, great mirrored windows gleaming over terraced balconies practically draped with greenery, potted plants from dozens of worlds and fanciful water fountains adding to the strange but pleasant mix of urban and garden. Prestor wasn’t often moved by beauty, but it was obvious that this large, expensive city mansion was well maintained and cared for. He paid the transport driver and stepped up the durasteel path to the wide front doors, new spring flowers lining his route. A deep breath, in and out, and he lifted his hand to the door panel.

 

After only a few seconds, his request for entrance was granted, and on the other side of the door stood a gleaming silver protocol droid.

 

“Greetings, sir,” it said. “And welcome to the Naberrie Coruscant Estate. I am CR3-SP1. May I be of any-”

 

“You’re here!”

 

That exclamation of delight was the only warning Prestor got before what felt like a charging bantha hit him right in the solar plexus, leaving him gasping for air and clutching at the doorframe to keep his balance. A slightly hysterical part of his brain was ready to respond to the attack, but he fought it back and looked down at his ambusher.

 

A sweet, smiling face with sparkling hazel eyes beamed up at him, her arms wrapped around his waist. “Come on!” she said, tugging at him. “Come play with me!”

 

The droid twitched a bit. “My lady, I don’t know if-”

 

“Espee, go get tea ready.”

 

“As you command, my lady.”

 

The little girl released her embrace and pulled at his hand. “I’ve been waiting all day for you!” she said. “What took you so long?”

 

“Um,” Prestor managed, feeling incredibly unbalanced. She was tugging him into a sitting room, the decor and furnishings looking rather expensive but still tasteful, and more comfortable than not. “I don’t think I am who you think I am.”

 

“Nonsense,” she said dismissively, brushing at her skirts and smiling back at him. “You’re Ben, right?”

 

He felt his face warm. “Kind of. Nobody really calls me that.”

 

“But it’s your name, right?”

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“Then I’m gonna call you Ben. My name is Rey.” She led him to a sitting chair and pulled up a small chair for herself to sit next to him, her feet dangling several inches off the ground. “Wanna see a magic trick?”

 

Prestor, still a bit disoriented, gave the young girl a considering look. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

 

“Good,” she said, her face serious. Carefully, she pulled a small pack of old-fashioned paper playing cards from a pocket in her skirts. With intense concentration on her face, she split the deck and shuffled them together. Prestor was impressed by her fine motor coordination. She handed the deck to him. “Shuffle them.”

 

Prestor did his best, but had never actually handled physical paper cards like this. His awkward attempt seemed to satisfy Rey, though, and she accepted the cards back into her small hands. With a refined motion, she spread them out into a fan.

 

“Pull one out and don’t let me see it.”

 

Following her instructions, Prestor pulled a card out and looked at the small picture printed on it. A woman with white hair surrounded by polygon symbols. The Queen of Diamonds.

 

“Here,” she said, and took the card from him. She closed her eyes and held it up to her forehead, the queen still pointed at Prestor.

 

“I have to say the spell, now,” she announced before taking a deep breath. “Sky and ash and light and water. My mind is my own mind. In my left hand I hold...” She paused dramatically. “Four red moons!”

 

Rey opened her eyes and flipped the card around. Prestor had to stifle a laugh at the blank way she stared at the card.

 

She looked back up at him. “I messed up. I’ve been practicing this really hard.”

 

Prestor smiled at her. “I’m sure you’ll get it soon.”

 

“Woah,” she said, her eyes wide. “You look a lot nicer when you smile.”

 

A small comm set on an end table crackled loudly, startling Prestor. “Rey? Do we have a visitor?” Prestor was certain he recognized the Count’s voice.

 

Rey dove from the chair to rush over and speak into the comm. “Dad! You and Papa said that Ben wasn’t going to come, but he did! I was right! That means I get five extra mochi at dinner tonight. Papa promised!”

 

The Count hesitated for just a moment. “So he did, Rey. I remember. Did you get your toys put away like I asked?”

 

Rey stuck her tongue out. “No.”

 

“I need you to go finish putting them away before you can play with our guest.”

 

The small girl whined dramatically. “But _Dad_ …”

 

“If he has time, I’m sure you can talk him into staying long enough. _If_ you hurry. I’ll be there in just a moment or two, young Hux.”

 

“Thank you,” said Prestor, unsure of proper etiquette for the situation.

 

Rey turned off the comm, whirled at Prestor and fixed him with an intense glare.

 

“Don’t. Leave. Before I get back.”

 

Prestor couldn’t help but smile at her again. “I promise I won’t leave before I see you again.” He’d never had anyone so desperate for his company. It was a little flattering.

 

“Good,” she nodded, and sprinted from the room.

 

She was only gone for a few seconds before Prestor heard murmured words just outside the room. Indistinct, at first, but after a moment he could pick out two voices and what they were saying.

 

The Count’s voice was easy enough to identify. “I didn’t expect him to come here, not after the way his mother tore into me in front of him.”

 

“Well, this is good, right? Maybe we can go with the original plan, after all.” That voice… Prestor couldn’t quite place it, but he felt _sure_ that he had heard it before.

 

“We don’t know that for certain. I need to talk with him, first, see how far he’s willing to go. Things need to move quickly, if we’re to be ready by the time the _Finalizer_ gets here.”

 

“And the kid?”

 

“What about him?”

 

“I like him. He’s got some spitfire in him. Looked about ready to tear my throat out with his teeth, last time. If you hadn’t been there to hold him back, he probably would have.”

 

“I’m surprised at you, getting so attached. He’s nothing but a means to an end.”

 

“Don’t be like that.”

 

“He’s listening, you know.”

 

“At the door?”

 

“No. He’s still in the front parlor.”

 

“That’s… pretty damn impressive.”

 

“And with no training to speak of. Even Rey couldn’t manage that, yet.”

 

“Huh. Guess you better go talk to him, then.”

 

“Yes. I’ll be there in just a minute, young Hux. The droid at the door has tea for you.”

 

Prestor was pulled from his near-trance to see the door swing open and the silvery droid walk in with a tray balancing a good number of delicate porcelain tea-things. “I do hope the tea is to your liking, sir,” it said plaintively.

 

The tea actually was rather nice, flavored with berries and spices, and sure enough in only about two minutes the Count himself entered the room, polished, poised, and haughty.

 

“Young Prestor Hux,” he said. “I have to admit, I was not expecting you.”

 

Prestor rose from his chair, but then felt a little uncertain after that. How does one greet a nobleman who saved your life, nearly killed you right after, and perhaps planned the whole thing to get at one’s family? “Count,” he said stiffly, sketching out the outline of a bow. “I was not expecting this, myself.”

 

Elegantly, the Count shook Prestor’s hand and gestured for him to sit back down. Grateful for at least this little direction, Prestor did so.

 

There was that lofty nobleman’s smile. “I had heard that your family was coming to Coruscant, but I didn’t think you would take the time to visit me.”

 

Prestor nodded and sipped at the tea he’d been enjoying. He was still wary of anything that could have been added while he wasn’t looking, but Bren knew where he was, this time. “My whole family is here for the next few weeks, at the Emperor’s invitation.”

 

“Ah,” said the Count, lifting an eyebrow. “I wonder what he has in store for you.”

 

“I wonder more at what _you_ have in store,” Prestor accused. “You were speaking with Han Solo just now, weren’t you. You planned that kidnapping yourself. You paid for my abduction.”

 

The Count’s grin grew distinctly less like that of a nobleman. “Figured that out on your own, did you? Good. Now I don’t have to worry that you only seem smart because you can read all the answers in the minds of those around you.”

 

Prestor felt tension gathering along his shoulders. “You disgust me, manipulating someone in such a dangerous way. That monster almost ripped my fingers off!”

 

Much to Prestor’s surprise, the Count laughed. “You know, Chewie is _still_ not speaking to Han because of that. He was _furious_ that Han deviated from the script. Some wisdom for you, young one: never upset a Wookie. They hold grudges for a very long time.”

 

Anger was boiling up in Prestor’s chest, threatening to spill out between his teeth. He could taste it at the back of his throat…

 

“I’m sorry, young Hux. The manipulation was, I thought, necessary. I no longer believe so, and I offer my sincere apologies.” The Count managed to actually look contrite, though Prestor was as frustrated with trying to read him as ever. “May I ask… why is it that the Emperor has invited your family to the capital?”

 

“Don’t you already know?” Prestor accused. “The Speaker told us in public, in front of all the nobles gathered together.”

 

The Count’s gaze grew sharp and dangerous. “You met with the Emperor already?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“We should be grateful, then,” he said. “That Vader was not there.”

 

“Darth Vader? The Emperor’s Right Hand? He was there.”

 

The Count’s face went pale in shock, his eyes blazing with electricity. “Vader was there?”

 

“Yes,” Prestor said slowly, feeling a bit lost. “Why wouldn’t he have been?”

 

“But… you’re…” The Count trembled for a moment, as if shaking off a shroud. “You met Darth Vader. You stood before him in person.”

 

“...Yes?”

 

“And…” the Count wet his lips. “And he saw you. He knows… he saw you. But… you are here now?” The Count looked confused for a moment. “How are you here? I was so sure that if he ever found you he would try to… to steal you away.”

 

Prestor remembered the feeling of Lord Vader’s words pulling at him, commanding him. But then- “My mother was there. She told him he would never speak to me again.”

 

The Count’s eyes were burning as he gazed through Prestor. “Another reason,” he breathed. “For me to avoid future conflict with her. She is more than a little frightening.”

 

“Now answer one of my questions, Count,” Prestor said. He took a breath and drained his teacup, then settled his hands on his knees and met the Count’s eyes with his head held high. “What do you know about the name Skywalker?”

 

The room was silent. No sound at all entered Prestor’s ears, not even his own heartbeat. He had the terrifying sensation that someone was standing right behind him, or perhaps it was the feeling of an imminent lightning strike. The Count did not move at all.

 

Finally, he spoke, and his tone was neutral. “Where did you hear that name?”

 

Prestor shook his head slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“To the contrary,” said the Count. “Where you heard that name matters a great deal, you will find. Tell me.”

 

Those last two words pulled at Prestor, but he fought back. “Don’t try to force me to tell you, Count. I will answer your question after you answer mine.”

 

The Count gave another of his strange smiles. “Again I underestimate you,” he murmured. “Very well. Skywalker was the name of a General who fought for the Old Republic during the Clone Wars. He was a highly trained Jedi Knight and an excellent star-pilot.”

 

“What’s a Jedi Knight?”

 

“Answer my question, first, young one. Where did you hear the name?”

 

Prestor leaned his elbows on his knees. “I heard it in a dream. Anakin Skywalker.”

 

The smile that lit up the Count’s face could have powered a dozen planets. “I knew it!” He pumped a fist in the air like a teenager who just flew his first speeder. “I kriffing _knew_ it!” Leaning forward on the edge of his seat, the Count looked about ready to leap into Prestor’s arms. “You, young Prestor, are the key to everything!”

 

“I… what?”

 

The Count cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat, attempting to compose himself. “Sorry, Prestor. I… ah…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been waiting for this for ages.”

 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Prestor snapped, feeling somewhat like he was being made fun of, somehow. “I… I need to know what’s going on.”

 

“Yes,” said the Count. “I think the time has come when ignorance would be more dangerous to you than knowledge. Especially since you’ve already met him.”

 

“Met who?”

 

“The man who once was Anakin Skywalker. He no longer goes by that name, and any knowledge of it has been erased from the histories of the Empire. He’s barely even a man, now. He’s mostly machine and darkness.”

 

 _A mask._ “Darth Vader,” Prestor breathed.

 

“You’ll need that brain between your ears in the coming days, young one. It’s good to see you can use it, somewhat.”

 

Prestor scowled. “I graduated at the top of my class.”

 

“The Imperial Academy trains well in certain areas, while others are left to wither. Tell me what you know of the Force.”

 

“The Force?” The word nudged at the back of Prestor’s mind. A memory from a dream.

 

“The Force is… many things.” The Count lifted his hands as if trying to encompass what he was speaking of. “It is energy, and life, and power. It is the ultimate Force that governs all of reality, from the birth and death of the greatest stars to the movements of the tiniest quarks of light. It encompasses life, shapes it, moves it.”

 

“It sounds like a god.”

 

“In some ways,” the Count said. “You are not far wrong. Those who can use the Force, guide it to follow their will, often were viewed as practitioners of a religion of one kind or another, both Light and Dark. Those ways were all but lost with the rise of the Empire. There is vanishingly little that remains.”

 

Prestor bit at his bottom lip. “Tell me.”

 

The Count took a deep breath and glanced at the console at the far end of the room. “There are not enough hours in the day,” he murmured. “You are incredibly powerful with the Force, already, having had only yourself as a teacher your whole life. Maybe you can learn all that you need to faster than the doom that approaches us.”

 

“My dreams are… me using the Force?”

 

“And the mind-reading. And the enhanced strength, speed, and reflexes.”

 

“...Oh.”

 

Again the Count smiled. For a split second, Prestor felt the Count’s mental defences drop for the first time, allowing Prestor to see how hollow those frequent smiles really were.

 

“One last piece of information for you, young Hux. This information is… particularly dangerous, to both you and your family.”

 

Prestor straightened his posture. “I am not afraid.”

 

The Count lifted an eyebrow at him. “It might be better in the long run for you to accept your fear and then let go of it. Burying it will allow it to fester, and that is far more dangerous than any knowledge I can grant you in words today. You should be afraid of this, young one.”

 

He took a breath and closed his eyes. “This knowledge must be kept secret. No one knows about this but myself and you. Not the Emperor, not Darth Vader, not… not your mother. You see, Anakin Skywalker is not the only Skywalker. He never knew that his wife gave birth to your mother.”

 

Prestor felt something in his chest and throat clench. “My mother?”

 

“Her name was Leia, back then, adopted as princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. She never knew who her birth parents were.”

 

“Anakin Skywalker was my grandfather,” Prestor said softly. “That… definitely would explain all the dreams I’ve had about him.” He raised his eyes to the Count. “How is it that you know this?”

 

“It’s a long story for another time, but, in short, a family friend told me.”

 

“General Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

 

The Count pursed his lips. “I’m both happy that you are so quick to piece things together, and jealous of what must be the result of an extensive education in logic. Yes. Old Ben told me many things. How did you figure that one out?”

 

Prestor shrugged. “I took a guess. It makes sense, though, with what he said earlier.”

 

“You spoke with Old Ben earlier?”

 

“What, I’m not allowed to see ghosts, now?” Prestor snapped. “He’s the one who convinced me to come here. I spoke with him face-to-face less than two hours ago.”

 

The Count looked a little bemused. “No, no, you’re fine. I just…” he frowned a little bit. “He must be laughing his ass off at me, right now.”

 

The door to the sitting room flew open, and the little girl, Rey, Prestor remembered, came skipping into the room, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. “Ben!” she cried, and rushed over to clamber into Prestor’s lap. “You stayed!”

 

“Of course,” he said, feeling himself smile in spite of himself. “I promised, didn’t I?”

 

She embraced him. She smelled like sunshine, salt and sugar. “I want to try the magic trick again!” she said, pulling the cards from her pocket once again. “He cheated last time,” she explained in the Count’s direction. “He wasn’t thinking about the card he picked, so I couldn’t see it. I said the card was four red moons. This deck doesn’t even _have_ a card with four red moons on it!”

 

She held out her cards once again, and Prestor picked another one. This one had three concentric stars. Again, she placed her card on her forehead and stared at Prestor intently. Wondering what would happen, Prestor tried doing trigonometric proofs in his head.

 

Rey’s face scrunched up in distaste. “That’s cheating!” she said. “You’re supposed to think of the card you picked!”

 

The Count seemed to be stifling laughter behind his hand. “As much as I admire your new efforts towards shielding your thoughts, young Hux, it is also important for Rey to practice. If you don’t mind?”

 

With a very short sigh, Prestor pictured the stars in his mind as strongly as he could.

 

This time, Rey stuck her tongue out at him. “You don’t have to shout at me, either, Ben. Your card is the following star!”

 

She looked at the card and grinned up at Prestor. “Thank you,” she said, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

 

“I have to head home before my brother worries about me,” Prestor said. “But I’d like to come over again if that’s alright with you.”

 

Rey nodded. “Will you bring me a present?”

 

“Rey,” said the Count. “That isn’t very polite.”

 

Prestor shrugged. “Maybe I will,” he said. “I guess it’ll be a surprise.”

 

Satisfied with that, Rey danced back out of the room, her laughter and light following after her through the home.

 

“Come,” said the Count. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

 

The two of them walked down the hallway that Prestor had only glimpsed on his way in. One wall was lined with large paintings of landscapes, and the other was entirely made of windows looking out onto the garden terrace that embraced the manor.

 

“It would be best, I think,” the Count said. “If you could come over every day for lessons in the use of the Force. I understand if that’s not-”

 

Prestor turned to see that the Count had halted in his tracks just as his words had trailed off. He was staring out the windows, his eyes drinking in the beautiful garden as if he had never seen the color green before.

 

“Count?”

 

His eyes slowly came back to meet Prestor’s, something wild and desolate in them.

 

“Are you alright?” Prestor asked.

 

“Sorry,” the man breathed, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I was just… daydreaming, I guess.”

 

Prestor could sympathise with that, and he felt a smile steal its way across his face before he could stop it. “Just don’t start daydreaming like that again, alright? You frightened me for a minute, there.”

 

The Count smiled in return. “Sorry, Ben. It won’t happen again.”

 

_Help me. You’re my only hope._

 

Prestor’s smile faded, an uneasy feeling replacing the sympathy.

 

“What is it?” the Count asked.

 

“It’s just…” Prestor hesitated, trying to think, but the name was burning in his mind like a hot coal dropped in dry grass. “No one calls me Ben anymore.”

 

The Count’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was strange, his expression twisted with pain.

 

“Am I dreaming?” Prestor asked quietly.

 

“I don’t know,” said the Count. “But I certainly was, for a moment there.”

 

_Hands. They pulled at Prestor, pawing and clawing and dragging him. He couldn’t get his feet under him, and the scratchy fabric over his eyes smelled of dust and mildew._

 

_He could hear the roaring of the crowd growing louder and louder, drowning out thought, drowning out his own voice. Panicked, he tried reaching out with his mind, straining with the Force to get some sense of balance, direction, but his head hurt so much, and his mouth was so dry..._

 

_The crowd was all around him, their taunts and jeers careening against his body and the insides of his skull. With no warning, he was shoved to his knees and the blindfold was ripped from his eyes._

 

_There was no crowd that mattered, not in any world that this nightmare could be in. As Prestor’s eyes adjusted to the blinding white sun, he could make out the gleam of a golden crown, smooth red hair and pale green-blue eyes._

 

_“Ben Prestor Hux,” said the Emperor. “You are to be executed for treason and conspiracy against the Empire.” Prestor felt the whisper of a blade, and he was pushed down, bowing before his brother, his neck bared for the executioner’s axe._

 

_“Bren,” he whimpered. “I’m so sorry! Bren…” He tried to lift his head, tried to look into Bren’s eyes again. “Bren, I did it for you! Bren! You can’t… Don’t do this!”_

 

_His begging and screaming didn’t stop with the swing of the axe, with the thud of his body on pale stone at the feet of the Emperor._

  
His crying didn’t stop until Bren wrapped his arms around him, cradling Prestor against his heart and whispering comfort into his hair. Even when the tears finally stopped and Prestor could breath again, Bren didn’t leave, didn't seek his own bed. He stayed, his mind slowing into sleep and pulling Prestor with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunshine girl,  
> You are blessed beyond measure.  
> And you will fill the House of Paper Bones with endless laughter and joy.


	8. My Swordhand Is Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prestor is starting to think that he should never reach into a box while the Count is in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of dust.  
> My bones were made of paper but no one noticed me. They looked right through my paper bones and did not see them. Now my bones are lost forever  
> Below the wilderness.

_That mask. It was so familiar now that Prestor was sure that he could have drawn it in exact detail with his eyes closed, could have sculpted it in clay while blindfolded. It looked different, though, its features twisted and ravaged by a terrible force. Prestor stared at it, his hands clasped in front of him. He was trying to be calm, but peace was a lie and the comforts of his meditations eluded him._

 

_“Forgive me,” he whispered to the mask. “I feel it again. The call of the Light. Bren has noticed. He’s asked me what is wrong and I...”_

 

_Prestor sank to his knees, tugging the helmet off to twist gloved fingers into his hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing, grandfather. Please… show me again. Show me how to use the darkness… I will fulfill our destiny. My brother and I will reign over the galaxy with justice as our sword…”_

 

The dream unsettled Prestor into wakefulness. He felt hot and sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead. Bren was still next to him, his breath ghosting along Prestor’s collarbone. Prestor tried to nudge him awake and back into his own bed, but Bren only grumbled in his sleep and buried himself deeper. Too restless and anxious to try harder, Prestor determined that he was thirsty enough to warrant climbing out of bed and getting a drink.

 

He heard the door to the penthouse hiss closed in the dark. Drifting down the hall, he tried to feel for if there was an intruder or not.

 

“Lights,” he said.

 

Responding to his voice, the yellow lights near the door flicked on, and Cedes nearly jumped out of her skin. “Mercy!” she breathed. “Pres! You startled me! Since when can you move so quietly?”

 

Prestor stared at his mother for a moment. She was dressed up, and tossing back her veils from her face as she spoke to him. “Where were you?” he whispered.

 

“At a meeting,” she responded, stepping closer to him, a small, genuine smile on her lips.

 

“In the middle of the night?”

 

Much to Prestor’s surprise, she came close and placed her arms around him. Unsure of what to do about this, Prestor tried to return the embrace. His mother hadn’t hugged him in a very long time. Maybe that was why she felt so small, hardly as tall as his chest, and Prestor was struck with the sudden sensation of how fragile she was, how mortal. She always seemed superhuman to him, larger than reality and as unstoppable as the movements of planets.

 

“Mother?” he whispered.

 

She sighed, deeply, the sound rising from below the floor to escape her. “Ben,” she breathed. Prestor tried not to shudder. She so rarely called him that, anymore. “I just… I want you to know… I would do _anything_ for you.”

 

Before he could formulate what to say in his mind, she slipped away, vanishing into the dark like a phantom.

 

The encounter felt more like a dream than his earlier dream had.

 

_A dimly lit room seemed to creak with the movements of the few people in it. Faint traces of cigarette smoke curled around the bare bulbs on the ceiling, and the clinking of glass mingled with murmured conversation._

 

_“This is… not the kind of place we usually go,” said Mitaka, his voice quiet and a little high with nerves._

 

_“It’s perfect,” said Dameron. “No Empire, here. None of their ears or eyes in a tiny backwater place like this. Sit down, Dop.”_

 

_The scrape of chairs on the floor. “What are we doing here, Poe? I thought you said-”_

 

_“Shh,” said Dameron. “You should probably still keep quiet, even here. Did you see the news this morning?”_

 

_“How could I not?” Mitaka sounded very confused and near ready to bolt for the door. “It’s been all anyone’s talked about. It’s all over the holonet. Emperor Palpatine dead in his sleep…”_

 

_“That’s what they want you to think, at least.”_

 

_“What?”_

 

_“Nevermind. It’s not important right now. Did you notice who he named as successor to the throne right before he passed?”_

 

_“Oh! Yes! Brigadier-General Hux!”_

 

_“Shit, Dop. Keep it down.”_

 

_“Sorry. Yeah. The Brigadier-General is Prestor Hux’s brother. You remember him, right?”_

 

_“...Yes. I do. Dop, do you really want someone like that ruling the galaxy?”_

 

_“Um… what do you mean?”_

 

_“Think about it. I mean, I met Prestor, and he’s...pretty, I guess, but not exactly the kind of person I would want in charge of things. Are you following what I’m saying?”_

 

_“I… think so? But the Hux brothers are nothing alike, except in their ability to make everyone else look like idiots.”_

 

_“Do I detect a note of envy?”_

 

_“Shut up, Poe.”_

 

_“Alright, alright. Back to the subject. Prestor Hux on the throne would be bad enough, but have you heard the stories about his brother the Brigadier-General? They say he’s the perfect military officer. An icon, a standard to hold up as the ideal.”_

 

_“That’s what they say.”_

 

_“And have you heard the other stories? The Dathomir massacre? The uprising at Eriadu? The minor ‘conflict’ at Jakku that saw over five hundred civilian casualties?”_

 

_“What are you saying?”_

 

_“I’m saying that if he creates so much death as an officer what kind of Emperor will he be?”_

 

_“That isn’t fair, Poe. Following orders-”_

 

_“The ‘just following orders’ excuse is even worse, Dop. Just following orders? Whose orders will he follow when he holds absolute power over the Empire? Hm? Maybe he’ll just tread the path that Palpatine forged, which would be bad enough. What if he listens to the Commandant? Old man Hux is a nasty piece of work, and I’ve heard that Brendol Hux Junior has fashioned himself in the likeness of his father. Maybe he even idolizes him. Do you really want the Commandant pulling the strings of the throne?”_

 

_Prestor felt sick to his stomach, and it only got worse when he felt Mitaka sway to Dameron’s persuasive words._

 

_“So… what are you going to do about it, Poe?”_

 

_Prestor heard Dameron’s smile. “The coronation’s in three days. Security will be tight, but a Mandalorian friend of mine says there’s a building near the palace. It’d be tricky, but a really good marksman could make the shot from there…”_

 

During breakfast, Prestor mostly just pushed food around his plate. That last dream had killed his appetite for food. Instead he had a growing craving for violence. Maybe he could get a hold of Mitaka, find out how to contact Dameron. The fool had all but said he wanted an intimate encounter, right? Prestor still had his small Mandalor knife he’d concealed on his person during school…

 

“Interesting,” said the Commandant as he poured over his messages. “Cedes, what do you know about this… Count Naberrie of Kwilaan?”

 

Cedes sipped at her water. “Not much,” she admitted. “His official records identify him as the son of Sola Naberrie of Naboo. A respected house, in certain circles, and he spent most of his life on Naboo. Recently, he’s begun making moves in Galactic politics, but he’s an amateur player. There’s no subtlety to him whatsoever. He spends ludicrous amounts of money whenever he can, just to remind people of his family’s wealth. He’s married to a man named San M’Lennium Naberrie and they have a young daughter, Rey Sialeia Naberrie. He’s currently on Coruscant, probably trying to worm his way into the Emperor’s good graces.” Cedes cast Prestor a look to silently point out to him how much she was not telling the Commandant about Prestor’s involvement with the Count. Prestor mouthed a ‘thank you’.

 

The Commandant nearly smiled. “Not much?”

 

Cedes folded her napkin. “Not as much as I would if I considered him important.”

 

The Commandant gave a quiet hum. “I may ask you to dig up a little more on him. He just extended an invitation.”

 

Prestor glanced at Bren, but his brother looked absorbed in the contents of his own datapad. He was probably still listening, though.

 

“What nature of invitation?” Cedes asked.

 

“It looks like…” The Commandant’s brow furrowed slightly. “He wants to throw a party. A retirement party, to celebrate all of my accomplishments at the Academy. It looks like he intends to invite half the Empire.”

 

Cedes face was cold. “Surely only about a quarter will show up.”

 

The Commandant set his datapad down. “Cedes, do you anticipate there being any kind of real danger in this invitation? I cannot imagine that he would purposefully antagonize our family, not with the matter of… succession at hand.”

 

Slowly, Cedes rose from her chair. She looked at Prestor and then Bren a moment before speaking. “On the very surface,” she said. “He wants to make a good impression on the family of the future Emperor.”  Prestor saw Bren’s shoulders shift a minute amount. “However, there is probably a second and third, possibly a fourth reason for this move. I will find out. Prestor, if you learn anything about his objectives, you will tell me.”

 

Prestor avoided looking at the Commandant and Bren. “Yes, mother.”

 

It was interesting, Prestor decided, that his family could only spend so long together, or maybe they just couldn’t be idle for long. Bren was going to visit the local garrison of stormtroopers, he said, and then to visit with his friend Captain Phasma. The Commandant had been invited to a luncheon with a former Academy instructor, and Cedes said that she was going shopping and having tea with an old friend, though Prestor had noticed that her previous shopping excursion had resulted in very few purchases. As for himself…

 

Prestor stood at sharp attention in the reception hall. He did not mind having to wait, given that he had arrived ten minutes before schedule. It allowed him time to observe. He’d felt so rushed last time, but the protocol droid had informed him that Rey was with a tutor, unable to harass him.

 

The hall was quiet, the only sounds the gurgle of an intricate water-clock and an unusual, persistent hum. Prestor frowned. The humming was distracting, pitched just at the edge of hearing, lower than was comfortable. He found himself fidgeting. Prestor never fidgeted, and so made himself stop. That damnable humming was incessant, burrowing into his head. He glanced around the room, wondering at the source. Perhaps it was some faulty wiring hidden in the walls or something similar.

 

To one side of the room sat a long polished table, and on that table sat a rough wooden chest. Peculiar, Prestor found himself thinking. The old greying wood was incongruous with its high-class surroundings, a black metal clasp dangling from where it was loosely fastened to the front. It did not appear to be locked in any way.

 

Much to his surprise, Prestor found himself in front of the chest, his hand reaching towards it.

 

“Ah! Young Prestor Hux!”

 

Prestor snatched his hand back, his cheeks burning with embarrassment at being caught. “Count! I apologize, I did not-”

 

The man laughed, his smile easy. “Don’t fret yourself, young one. There’s nothing to apologize for.” He looked at the chest, strange look on his face. “You want to know what is in the box?”

 

“I…” Prestor faltered. He _did_ want to know. Desperately. His fingers itched, and his throat was dry. The humming sound was only growing more and more intolerable, calling to him from inside.

 

“Go ahead. Open it.”

 

Prestor looked at the box, the wheels in his head spinning. He glared back at the Count. “Is this another one of your _tests_? Or perhaps you you will call it what it is this time: a trap?”

 

The Count’s blue eyes burned as he smiled. It was not the smile of a nobleman; it was the smile of a predator. “It is both, young one. And far more dangerous than the last.”

 

Prestor turned back to the chest, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. He had never faced a test he could not pass. And yet… this small wooden chest filled him with an uncanny dread.

 

“You don’t _want_ to know,” the Count said quietly behind him. “You _need_ to know. It calls to you.”

 

Prestor reached out, grasped the lid between both hands, and opened it. Nestled inside lay a single, inconspicuous cylinder of metal he could not quite identify. The humming stopped. Prestor let his eyes gather in the tiny details. “What is it?”

 

“A lightsaber.”

 

Prestor glanced back at the Count. “A what?”

 

“A lightsaber. A weapon, likely more elegant than any you are used to. A relic from a more civilized age.”

 

Prestor looked back at the lightsaber. “The Empire is the pinnacle of galactic civilization.”

 

“So I’ve been told.” The Count said dryly.

 

“May I?”

 

“Go ahead, young one.”

 

He looked back at the metal tube, the handle of a weapon. “I think… I’ve seen this before,” he said quietly. “In my dreams… I held a sword of blue light.”

 

“Perhaps it is rightfully yours, then. Perhaps it’s been waiting here for you.”

 

Prestor’s hand hovered over the lightsaber, tremors twitching at his fingers. “What will happen when I pick it up?”

 

“Your training will begin in earnest.”

 

With a breath to steady his nerves, Prestor picked up his grandfather’s lightsaber.

 

_A flash of light. Mechanical breathing. A tilting hallway. Scorching heat licking at his bones. His brother. Careful, Bren._

 

_A darkness that follows. My face is not my own._

 

_A jewel-colored city by a lake._

 

_Creature in a mask._

 

_The Imperial Palace, the bodies of children litter the floor._

 

_The lost one returns to the flock! No one ever leaves the darkness behind! You will never escape the darkness, small tainted thing. It follows you. Always._

 

_The taste of blood and salt._

 

_Red lightning._

 

_Starlight paints our faces. They will think of us, in the future._

 

_Come home. We miss you._

 

_Faceless soldiers all in white._

 

_Sand and dust and smoke._

 

_What do you think you will see?_

 

_A small room. Ben sees his mother, but she is much younger, perhaps close to his own age. She sits next to a boy, sandy blonde hair falls in his eyes. They are afraid._

 

_“What is your name?” She asks._

 

_He is quiet for a moment. “Luke,” he says. “Luke Skywalker.”_

 

_“I’m Leia.”_

 

_They are silent for one breath, two. “I found your message,” he says. “The one the droid was carrying.”_

 

_She sits up straighter. “My message?” she says. “Did… is Obi-Wan Kenobi…”_

 

_Luke shakes his head, his face twisting in grief. “Ben is dead.” Ben flinches at the name. “Imperial stormtroopers executed him for treason two weeks ago.”_

 

_The room seems to grow darker. Leia wipes at her eyes. “He was our last hope,” she whispers._

 

_Luke tries to smile for her. “We can’t give up just yet,” he says. “Maybe we can escape!”_

 

_“And go where?” Leia wraps her arms around herself. “Alderaan is lost, my people…” Her words halt, tears overwhelming her. “I don’t know what to do.”_

 

_Luke casts his eyes around the room, as if trying to find the answer in his surroundings. He has to say something, anything to help her. He has only just met her, but he already knows he would give his life for her._

 

_“Listen, Leia,” he takes one of her hands in both of his. “I swear to you that I will do everything I can to make things right. No matter how hard it is, no matter how long it takes, I will never give up fighting.”_

 

_He holds her hand against his heart so she can feel how much he means his words. She knows. She can feel it._

 

_The door opens. Darkness walks in._

 

_Leia sneers. “Vader,” she spits like the word is a curse. She is right._

 

_“You were found on Tatooine,” says the darkness. Luke stands and faces it, resolute and determined to keep his promise._

 

_“Yes.”_

 

_“What is your name, child of Tatooine?”_

 

_Lie to him._

 

_The voice is loud, but only Luke hears it. He is startled, but tries not to show it. “Luke Lars,” he says. He doesn’t know why, but he trusts the voice. It sounds like a friend._

 

_“Lars.” The name is hissed out of the mask like escaping steam. “Your father… Owen Lars?”_

 

_Luke swallows. “Yes.”_

 

_The darkness does not speak for a moment. Its terrible breathing fills the room. Leia shivers. “Luke Lars, you are to be executed for treason and conspiracy.” Leia lifts her hand to her mouth as the tears start to fall again. “You will follow me.” The darkness turns to leave._

 

_Luke feels his limbs move on their own, as if by magic. Frantic, he tries to turn back to Leia. “I won’t give up,” he says to her. “I will never stop fighting! Leia!”_

 

_Watch your flesh turn black and peel away._

 

_You see now… what futures await you. All those people you want to save. The people you want to CONTROL. They will shrivel in your grasp…_

 

_The taste of ash._

 

_A vast desert, endless, parched. The dry heat was so intense that Prestor felt no sweat on his body; it was evaporating too fast to feel._

 

_“Oh, good,” said the young woman. “You’re here! You can help me, now.” She handed him a shovel. “Start looking.”_

 

_Prestor’s eyes scanned the horizon. “This is going to take forever,” he whispered._

 

 _She smiled at him, an oasis. “That’s why we have to start_ now _, Pres.”_

 

Prestor opened his eyes to bright golden light. He groaned. His brain felt like it had been sloshed around and battered.

 

“You’re okay, kid. Here.”

 

Strong hands tugged him upright, and a glass was held to his lips. He sipped at the water as his vision swam into focus.

 

The Count was looking at him curiously. “That never happened when _I_ picked it up,” he said quietly.

 

“Don’t sound so jealous over having a seizure.”

 

Prestor stared at the other man kneeling next to him. He was on the floor, he realized; he must have fallen when he picked up the lightsaber. It sat heavy with anticipation in his hand.

 

Han Solo shot a crooked grin down at him. “Sorry about last time,” he said. “No hard feelings?”

 

Prestor stared at him. “You had a…” He gestured at Solo’s face. “Last time.”

 

“Yeah,” Solo said with a smile. “The fake scar and eyepatch were my idea. To make me look scarier. Did they work?”

 

Prestor looked back at the Count. “May I punch him?”

 

The Count quirked an eyebrow. “Not this time, young one.”

 

Prestor sighed and settled for imagining stabbing the man instead. Maybe on a bridge or other high place, so afterwards he could watch Solo tumble down into a bottomless chasm. A mild shock ran through his bones, as if he’d touched a bare wire.

 

“Ow!”

 

“You will not fantasize about killing anyone while you are in my home, do you understand?” The Count’s eyes were cold. “Particularly when you are holding a deadly weapon.”

 

Prestor shrugged. “Alright. Fine.”

 

“I blame that infernal Academy,” the Count muttered. “I’ve never seen a person improved by their time there. They always come out worse.”

 

Solo shrugged. “Don’t make it more complicated that it has to be. Just blame his parents.”

 

Prestor scoffed. “Yeah. Like you have any room to judge a person. How many times did daddy beat you, to have you turn out like this? Kidnapping people for fun and profit?”

 

“Hey, watch your mouth, kid. I, at least, _know_ that I am a horrible person and a scoundrel, and acknowledge that.”

 

Prestor put a mocking hand to his chest. “You're right! I feel _so much better_ about that traumatic experience because at least _you_ know that you are a bad person!”

 

“With an attitude like that, it’s a miracle your father hasn’t strangled you yet!”

 

“That says so much about _your_ attitude towards parenting that I think I’m going to vomit!”

 

A strangled sound came from the Count, enough to halt Prestor and Solo in their rising argument. He had a hand over his mouth and he kept looking back and forth between the two of them. After a moment, he ran his hand through his hair and muttered several words that weren’t in basic but Prestor guessed were very colorful, from Solo’s reaction.

 

“Your first lesson, young one” the Count said slowly. “Is not the one I intended to teach first, but… even Force users can be lied to, or caught unaware. Just because you can perceive more than most, do not make the mistake of thinking that you are all-knowing in any way. The Force is very powerful, but it is limited by our perceptions and understandings. You can… still find yourself being surprised from time-to-time.”

 

He shifted his gaze to Solo. “Light of my heart?” he said sweetly.

 

Solo paused, sensing the crackling lightning in the room. “Yes, bright eyes?”

 

“Thank you for assisting me with… Prestor. You can… go now.”

 

“Um. Alright.”

 

“You and I are going to talk. Later.”

 

Han Solo stood and walked out of the room, occasionally shooting confused glances over his shoulder. “Is there anything I can-”

 

“ _Later_ , Han.”

 

The door shut behind Solo.

 

It was quiet for a moment, and then he turned to Prestor with a smile. “Let’s start with some meditation.”

 

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

 

“Yes, just… after I… talk to Han about it.”

 

Prestor shrugged. “Alright, Luke.”

 

Luke narrowed his eyes and leaned a bit closer to Prestor. “Oh? Did you hear that name in one of your dreams? You couldn’t have picked it up from anyone here. I’ve been very careful about keeping my family’s minds safe from your prying.”

 

Prestor felt his face grow a little warm in embarrassment. “I don’t read minds on purpose. And no, it wasn’t a dream. I heard it just now, in the vision.”

 

Luke held out his hand and pulled Prestor to his feet along with himself. “A vision? When you picked up the lightsaber?”

 

“Yes,” Prestor shivered. “It… wasn’t very pleasant. But I saw you and my mother. You told her your name was Luke Skywalker, and then you lied to Darth Vader and said it was Luke Lars.”

 

“I almost forgot I gave him that name,” Luke shrugged. “It saved my life, though. Any other name and he would have killed me. Or worse.”

 

“I don’t understand. You… are a Skywalker, too?”

 

“Yes,” Luke drifted from the room, beckoning for Prestor to follow. “There is much for you to learn, but it can wait a few minutes longer. There are other things that need to come first.”

 

The room Luke led him to was quiet and plain, with no real furniture or decorations. A small stand of incense burned in one corner, woodsy and soft, and only a few thin mats covered the floor. “With practice,” Luke said. “You will be able to meditate wherever and whenever you need, but this space is useful for learning.”

 

“Why do I need to learn to meditate?”

 

Luke settled himself cross-legged on the floor and gestured for Prestor to do the same. “You’ve been using the Force instinctively, flailing around and making a great deal of noise, so to speak. You’ve managed to attract quite a bit of attention in doing so, and not from entirely benevolent parties. Control is what you need to learn. To use a more military metaphor, you’ve been sending in bombing raids where a single marksman would suffice.”

 

Prestor tried to arrange his gangly limbs into a position that was comfortable. “What do you mean I’ve been attracting attention?”

 

“The Emperor, for one. Darth Vader. I’ve felt the eyes of others scattered across the stars turning to focus on you. A few days ago I even received a vision from Dagobah. Now. Focus on your breathing. Deep, slow breaths. You don’t need to move your shoulders when you breath; use your diaphragm. Better.”

 

Luke led Prestor through several breathing exercises, one after another, making him focus on that alone. Every time his mind started to wander, Prestor felt Luke’s mind gently nudge him back into place. It was disorienting, and strange, and after a while Prestor began to felt like his head was floating off of his body.

 

“I feel like I’ve been breathing for hours,” mumbled Prestor.

 

Luke raised his eyebrows. “You want to stop breathing?”

 

Prestor snorted. “Why are we going through all these? Just to teach me how to concentrate better?”

 

Much to Prestor’s surprise, Luke seemed to actually think through what Prestor was asking. “We’re starting here because this is where my own training began: sitting still in a quiet room and learning to listen and focus. Of course, I didn’t have incense or cushions or…”

 

“Tell me,” said Prestor.

 

Luke’s eyes grew distant. “I haven’t even told Han all of it. Most days…” He fell quiet for a moment, lost in thoughts or memories that he kept Prestor from seeing. “I told Vader that my name was Luke Lars. I didn’t know then, but if I had told him my real name, Skywalker, he would never have let me go. He would have dragged me into the darkness with him. He didn’t know… he _still_ doesn’t know that his wife lived long enough to give birth to twins, Leia and I. And if I had given any other name he would have had me executed with no further thought. Lars, though… I’m still a little surprised he remembered the name of his step-brother. It stayed his hand just enough that he didn’t want to kill me, but some days I wish he had.”

 

“What did he do?”

 

Luke’s expression twitched into something like pain, but not quite. “He sent me to the Empire’s secret prison, the Crypt. I spent the next thirteen years in solitary confinement, there.”

 

Prestor did not often feel sympathy, and he thought the feeling in his stomach probably still wasn’t sympathy. More like horror at the thought. “Thirteen years in solitary? Hell…”

 

“Yes.” A second, less. Luke let Prestor past his mental walls for just an instant, let Prestor see and feel the rough walls, the terrible loneliness, time wearing over his mind like water over a stone, even a moment enough to drive him mad, the endless whispers of voices of the dead...

 

Luke stood and stretched, and Prestor scrambled to his feet much less gracefully, trying to shake off the glimpse of Luke’s demons. “That is the environment in which I learned to embrace the Force. I had… an occasional mentor. Old Ben Kenobi did his best, but for the first several years I was convinced I was just imagining him, my mind losing grip on reality and creating a companion to keep me company. To be completely honest… I never was certain that he wasn’t. Not until you said that you saw him.”

 

“Oh,” Prestor said, very quietly. “I… didn’t know the Empire had a secret prison.”

 

“It’s in the Anoat system, far from everything. It wouldn’t be much of a secret if everyone knew about it, would it?” Luke’s smile this time was sad. “Come. Let’s have some tea and I will answer as many of your questions as I can before you have to head back to your penthouse and reassure your mother that I have not done any harm to you.”

 

“Speaking of,” Prestor said. “She all but told me to try and find out why you want to throw a retirement celebration for my father.”

 

Luke smiled, his expression tight as he led Prestor once again to another room. This room had high ceilings and decor all in deep green velvets and bronzes burnished to nearly glow. The one window took up an entire wall and looked out over the cityscape

 

Tea was already set out for them, steaming just a little, and Luke settled easily into one of the comfortable chairs. “Yes. I had already been planning this before we met. Your… Commandant is a component of my plans that are to be put into motion, soon.” He fixed his gaze on Prestor. “Do you want me to tell you all the details? Or do you want to maintain plausible deniability in front of your mother?”

 

Prestor helped himself to a cup. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

 

“You continue to impress me with your intelligence, Prestor.”

  
Prestor looked down into the brownish red drink, his mind spinning with a wish that surprised him. “Since you’re actually my uncle…” he lifted his head and smiled at Luke. “You can call me Pres. Or… or even Ben. You can call me Ben, if you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. They are not lost. I found them. And your child’s child’s child will live forever in the House of Paper Bones.


	9. In My Left Hand I Hold Four Red Moons, pt II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the Anniversary.
> 
> (quick note: of course the one time I fail to thoroughly research a character on the wiki before implementing him, I get his name wrong. Biggs is apparently his first name, not his last. whoops. ((he changed it after graduation. shh)))
> 
> Those of you who have been enjoying the last three chapters of mostly fluff... buckle up. This chapter gets some heavy-duty WARNINGS. If any of these sound iffy to you, click down to the bottom notes where I have described them a bit more and you can decide if you want to skip this bit of story.
> 
> Incest: Prestor and Bren's relationship gets escalated.
> 
> Character Death: Three instances- one is a group of people and not really described, another is a major character, and another is a minor unnamed character but it punches harder.
> 
> Violence By a Main Character Towards a Child: please see the end notes.
> 
> Self-Harm: very lightly described, but please see the end notes if you need to. Practice safe reading.
> 
> Holocaust Imagery: I don't know how else to describe it. The Empire is not nice.
> 
> Disturbing Imagery for the Dark Side: the dark side is nasty, kids, and it is described as such in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of rust.  
> I inherited the crumbling remains of what came before and was told I should be grateful to have so much.  
> So I set the rotting crown on my head  
> Abandoned  
> And begged for someone to look beneath the wreckage and see that  
> Far beneath the decay there is still something worth saving.  
> I am not ruined.  
> I am ruination.

One week. One standard week consisting of five standard days, the galactic standard as measured by Coruscant’s rotation and orbit. Each day was twenty-four hours, each hour sixty minutes, each minute sixty seconds. One week. That was how long Prestor had spent going to train with Luke in the mornings, to eat lunch with Rey. His afternoons were spent wandering, through shopping districts and residential areas, touring the Imperial Navy base, visiting museums and parks, all the while practicing. Sometimes he would practice isolation, learning to control his mind and discipline it into itself. My mind is my own mind. If he concentrated, he could block out everyone and everything around him. By day four, he found he could nearly meditate while walking down the sidewalk, though he did tend to run into people when he tried.

 

Other times he expanded himself, stretched out and reaching as far as he could. He tried to see how many people he could feel at once, how far away he could listen in on a conversation, and how many times he could introduce himself to a stranger and ask them to forget before they started to give him very concerned looks.

 

Discipline, control, and order. He had worked so hard to gain as much precision, accuracy, and correctness as he could in everything he did at the Academy. Prestor had succeeded, but looking back now, he couldn’t say that he had ever enjoyed it there. His purpose had been to conquer, to rule, to slay the beast of his father’s indifference. Now… now he knew that beast was immortal.

 

However, in these few precious days he had gained more than he could have imagined in his previous life of rigid guidelines, timetables, and rules. He felt free. He felt like he could run for days and not tire, like he could sense the pulse of the planet itself far below his feet, like he could reach out and pull the moon down from the sky. Sometimes he barely caught himself from walking off the edge of a suspended walkway, simply because he felt like it wouldn’t actually matter if there were anything solid beneath his feet. Luke said he was an idiot.

 

Of course, Luke also said he would make a powerful Jedi, someday. That if he could resist the allure of the Dark side, he could rise to heights unknown since the Old Republic and the epoch of the Jedi Order. As Prestor learned to meditate better and feel his own connection to the Force, he felt a few shadowy corners, yes, but nothing like the darkness he felt when he faced Darth Vader.

 

“Careful, young one,” said Luke. “The dark side has a way of starting with small, insignificant things, slowly drawing you deeper, ensnaring you with gentle promises of power.”

 

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

 

That earned Prestor a very strange, small smile that was more than a little frightening. “Perhaps I am. Consider the possibility that I know the path I tread and it is not the path of peace. But if I can help keep you in the Light, then maybe that can balance out my actions.”

 

The sixth day dawned after another night of nightmares. Prestor’s dreams had been of nothing, a vast empty emptiness he could scream into forever and never be heard. But then there was a sudden light, a searing flash of agony...

 

“Shh…” Bren whispered against his forehead. “You’re alright, Pres. It was just a dream. I’m here.”

 

Prestor whimpered a little. “They never feel like they’re just dreams, but this one felt more like… I don’t know what it felt like, but it hurt so much…”

 

It still hurt. Prestor’s head ached, throbbing with his pulse. Every sound grated against his skull, and when Bren turned on the lights it felt like being stabbed.

 

“I think I’m sick,” Prestor mumbled. Everything hurt, really. His throat felt raw, and swallowing felt like he was trying to swallow hot coals. Every joint in his body creaked and grinded when he moved, every muscle screamed. “I feel terrible.” It felt like the biggest understatement of his life.

 

“You don’t look so good, either.”

 

Prestor’s comm pinged, and he flinched at the sound. Carefully, he opened the anonymous message and read it through bleary eyes.

 

_Do not come today. Your mother needs you._

 

Still struggling, Prestor rubbed at his head before glancing up to the corner of the screen where the date and time was displayed. As soon as he saw the numbers there, his blood ran cold.

 

“Bren,” he said. “It’s the anniversary.”

 

Bren swore. “I lost track,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe it won’t be bad, today. It’s been years since it was really bad, right?”

 

Prestor forced his painful body out of bed and to begin dressing. “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be…” he trailed off. Maybe the pain he was feeling wasn’t his. He’d been practicing strengthening his connection to the Force, so maybe-

 

“Come on,” said Bren. “I can smell breakfast.”

 

There was, in fact, an array of breakfast foods laid out on the table in the dining area, but when Bren and Prestor walked into the room, neither Cedes nor the Commandant were eating. Cedes sat at the table, a very small drinking glass empty in front of her, and a bottle of Corellian brandy, unopened. Her hands were on her lap, her head bowed over them, and she didn’t look up when they entered.

 

The Commandant had his back turned. He was watching a HoloNet News report on the large display next to the window.

 

_“...in the binary Tatoo system, located in the Outer Rim. This celebratory firing of the famous battle station marks the twentieth year anniversary of its successful first use. The historic Death Star, originally under the command of esteemed Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin…”_

 

Cedes stood and grabbed the bottle of brandy. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather,” she said, her voice even and calm. “Perhaps a hot bath-”

 

 _“... uninhabited planet. Commander of the_ Finalizer _, General Lizhin Biggs, says of the demonstration, ‘This is a grand day in our history, a day of remembrance and victory for the Empire’…”_

 

“Cedes,” said Bren. “Is there anything-”

 

“I’m fine, Bren,” she said with a smile. “I’m just going to take a bath. I’ll be… just fine…”

 

When she walked past Prestor, she felt like the vacuum of space. He tried extending a mental thread of compassion to her, but it was swallowed into the void.

 

_“... chose the planet for its massive distance from any habitable space, far from where there would be any collateral damage to present or future lifeforms. The Empire, as always, has the interest of the citizens at heart…”_

 

“Odd,” muttered the Commandant. “Knowing the General, I’m surprised at the lack of fanfare leading up to this.”

 

“General?” said Prestor. “I thought Admiral Shash commanded the Death Star.”

 

The Commandant shrugged his shoulders. “That is because you are naive, Prestor.”

 

_“...marks the triumph of the Galactic Empire over disorder and chaos. The Empire stands for civilization and prosperity for all…”_

 

Carefully, Prestor reached out with his mind. He hadn’t yet tried to do this consciously with his family, and some part of him wondered if it would work.

 

_What is Biggs thinking? He couldn’t have obtained official permission for this move… What does he stand to gain from this? What will he lose?_

 

That was the Commandant, already thinking through how this would affect the gameboard and how he could take advantage.

 

_This is wrong. Something is wrong. That planet was not uninhabited. Why would the General have the Death Star destroy Tatooine? Something is wrong I should be there this is wrong wrong so many people dead wrong_

 

Bren calmly pulled his comm out and began typing out a message. Nothing of his turmoil showed on his face or his movements. Prestor’s aching head was beginning to feel a bit better, but the sickening twist of his stomach was only getting worse.

 

“I… I’m going for a walk,” said Prestor.

 

Bren’s head snapped up. “Where?” he asked.

 

“Just for a walk, Bren,” Prestor snapped, his nerves frayed. “I don’t need you to hold my hand!” He spat the lie and grabbed his jacket without looking at his brother again. “I’ll be back later.”

 

Prestor didn’t watch where he was going. He just walked. More than one shoulder bumped into him, but he was trying to focus his mind on only himself. In his own head, though, he could hear screaming. Had that been his dream? Had he felt the lives of that distant planet snuffed out like candles as he slept? He was shaking, pain still streaking through him, dancing up and down his nerves, leaping between the synapses of his brain.

 

“I need to see your identification, sir.”

 

Prestor jumped at the stormtrooper’s voice. Without thinking about where he was going, his steps had brought him to the Imperial Navy base. He stared up at the building, his mind still racing.

 

“Look, kid,” the trooper said. “Either show me your identification or leave. You’re creeping me out.”

 

“Sorry,” Prestor said. “Sorry, I…” Maybe the Force led him here or something. He didn’t want to think. He just wanted his head to stop hurting. “Here.”

 

The stormtrooper looked over the information. “Hux?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “Please forgive me, sir. I didn’t-”

 

“It’s fine,” snapped Prestor. “Just let me pass.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

The base teemed with movement, troopers and officers and technicians with their steps long and purposeful going about their tasks, their minds focused, for the most part. It was different than walking along the city streets. Most of these minds were disciplined, or at least tried to be. Prestor almost would have been able to relax into it, if there hadn’t been the occasional jarring dissonant thought about the Death Star and General Biggs.

 

Prestor walked across parade grounds and through hangars, past shooting ranges and training rooms. Deep in the base, he felt a shift in the minds around him.

 

He’s here.

 

He’s coming.

 

Respect and awe. From some of the troopers an adoration bordering on zealotry. A mask.

 

Prestor shuddered. Was that why he was here? Was this why the Force led his feet on this path?

 

Across the landing strip, a shuttle landed, and the man made of darkness emerged. Prestor stood still at the edge, watching the stormtroopers around him react. They all but worshiped Darth Vader, it seemed. He was no distant commander, handing down orders from a throne. Vader fought alongside them, a pillar of strength on even the most dire of battlefields. More than once, he had single-handedly saved squadrons with his insight and tactics, and yes, occasionally his wizardry. A trooper near Prestor recalled the time he had seen Vader surrounded by enemies armed to the teeth, his death imminent. With the barest flick of his hand, Vader had pulled the pins on all of the grenades strapped to their belts.

 

The Empire gave orders to the stormtroopers, but they obeyed Darth Vader.

 

Prestor had to admit, he was a little in awe himself. The Commandant worked very hard to control and manipulate the cadets of the Academy, shaping them into loyal soldiers who would be devoted not only to the Empire but to the Commandant as well.

 

Darth Vader did not try at all. He simply did.

 

The mask turned to face Prestor, a slight pressure eased up against his mind. Prestor had been practicing, however. He didn’t even have to try to keep Vader out. Of course, Vader was not putting much effort into it. Instead, he sent Prestor a small sense of being pleased at Prestor's new mental strength.

 

Darth Vader strode towards him, through the sea of white gleaming armor. He didn’t walk up to Prestor, however, but instead through a doorway, a feeling of invitation to follow drifting to Prestor. Curious, Prestor fell into step next to him, about a foot of space between them as they made their way into the base.

 

Neither of them spoke for several minutes, either vocally or mentally. Prestor listened to the man’s breathing, so loud it was difficult not to listen. He watched as people snapped to attention, lining the hallways. No one seemed to want to avoid Vader; rather, there were far more people now than when Prestor had entered this way. They thronged to see their Knight. There were only a few curious looks spared for Prestor, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with their leader. One officer, however, looked sharply at Prestor, a knowing look on his face. Reactive, Prestor stretched out his mind to see what the man saw in him.

 

_There’s no need for that._

 

Prestor’s focus stuttered. _What?_

 

_He recognized you, is all. In his mind, you are where you are supposed to be. After all, if your brother becomes Emperor, it would be fitting for you to serve as his Right Hand. Lieutenant Datoo believes you are with me to learn of being in such a role._

 

Prestor took a deep breath and aimed his eyes straight ahead. _That is not why I am here._

 

_Is it not, spirit?_

 

For the first time, Prestor looked at Vader. There was nothing there, nothing he could glean from the man. It was maddening.

 

_Why do you still call me that?_

 

_Because you are still a mystery to me. I know your name, your family’s names, your achievements on Arkanis… but none of that tells me what is important. None of that tells me…_

 

_Who I am._

 

 _Who you are, and why you have haunted me from the earliest days of-_ Vader’s thoughts snapped off. If they had been speaking aloud, Prestor imagined he would have heard the click of teeth.

 

Eventually, Vader continued. _The Speaker tells me that you tried to search for the name ‘Anakin Skywalker’._

 

Prestor shored up his mental walls, stubbornly refusing to respond to that.

 

Vader’s thoughts had a thread of amusement running through them. _That name is not one you could have found by normal means. You must have seen in your… dreams… who Anakin Skywalker was._

 

_Yes._

 

 _Then do you know…_ Vader fell silent for a moment. _Do you know what it is that binds you to him? Why it is that he would feel so strongly for you, spirit? Why did you appear to him when you did? What… are you? Why?_

 

Vader stopped walking, his heavy steps halted at a junction of hallways. Prestor felt an almost smile quirk at his lips. He was at a junction as well. The choice was before him. He could tell Vader as much or as little as he wanted. And, strangely, he knew that Darth Vader would believe him, would accept whatever words he gave. The man made of darkness was strong with the Force. But so was Prestor.

 

Prestor looked down each path ahead of him. None of them could be seen all the way to their ends from where he stood, but that was alright. He had seen so many possible futures, now, that he was no longer afraid. Whatever path he chose, he could make it the right path.

 

“The Force is strong in my family,” said Prestor quietly, but aloud. “My mother has it… I have it… and…” He stepped in front of the ancient warrior, facing him directly, staring into those masked eyes. “My grandfather has it.”

 

The mechanized hiss of breath faltered, and then resumed. Vader did not move; Prestor did not expect him to. His mind, however…

 

_Search your feelings. You know it’s true… grandfather._

 

“I’m afraid I must be going,” Prestor said aloud. “My family expects me home, soon. It has been an honor, Lord Vader.”

 

Prestor stepped back, bowed, and then walked away.

 

_Spirit…_

 

Prestor ignored him, burying the guilt he felt at that extended feeling of melancholy in that single word. A grief that had all but destroyed the last crumbling remains of Anakin Skywalker.

 

The penthouse was quiet when Prestor returned that evening. He hadn’t meant to be gone all day, but after the encounter with Darth Vader he had needed to walk even further to escape the feelings that raged through him. At least he was getting plenty of cardiovascular exercise. He had burned through his tangled emotions, as well, the shame and sorrow and guilt and anger and fear.

 

“Where is everyone?” asked Prestor.

 

Bren barely glanced at him. He looked tired, shadows under his eyes and his mouth drawn tight with what might loosely be called frustration. “The Commandant went out with some officers. They sounded like they wanted to take him to a bar or something. Mother… Cedes said something about a midnight vigil, down on level 3204.”

 

Prestor looked to where Bren clutched at the datapad in his hands, something desperate being held there. “Are you alright?”

 

Bren tilted his head slightly. “Of course,” he said. “That’s a strange question, Pres.”

 

“I just…”

 

_Tell me about your dreams…_

 

“Feel bad about leaving you here with the two of them.”

 

Bren shook his head. “You’re such an idiot sometimes, Pres.”

 

“Only sometimes?”

 

Instead of rising to the offer of banter, Bren stood and ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I’m going to bed, Pres. Goodnight.”

 

“Oh. Goodnight.”

 

Prestor made himself eat some dinner, chewing slowly, letting Bren have his space, physically, at least. It was hard to keep his mind to himself when he thought he heard a quiet, stifled sob from their shared room. Eventually, though, he felt Bren’s mind slow into sleep.

 

_Prestor stood in the ruins of a village, smoke still rising from hot ashes. A ragged line of people, sentients of every shape and size, stood waiting. And at the front of that line stood Bren Hux._

 

_He looked terrible, dark circles under his eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down. He had been too long without proper sleep or… when was the last time he had eaten a hot meal? It seemed a lifetime._

 

_This was the last of only a few settlements on this planet, and the Empire, great machine of order and reason, had determined that the resources gained from this planet were not worth sustaining the villages. So, Bren and his troops had been ordered to oversee the evacuation before the surface was to be razed._

 

_He was recording every sentient as they were escorted aboard the shuttles, taking record, making note of names and numbers. An exercise he found a comfort in._

 

_“Sir!” A stormtrooper walked over with a message. “We’re running out of room on the shuttles. We can’t take them all.”_

 

_Bren stared at the trooper for a moment. “Very well,” he said. “Send for another shuttle.”_

 

_“Sir,” the trooper said, his voice a bit quieter. “Captain Phasma already sent the request. It was denied.”_

 

_A sick dread was beginning to sink into Bren’s stomach. “Explain.”_

 

_“General Biggs said, sir, that we were not to waste any more time here. That we were to evacuate only what we have room for and leave the rest.”_

 

_Bren blinked in alarm. “Every living thing left behind will die.”_

 

_“Yes, sir.”_

 

_Bren stood still for a moment longer. “Dismissed,” he said._

 

_The stormtrooper saluted and fled. Bren cast his eyes over the crowd still waiting for their turn to board the shuttle. He heard his datapad ping, and he checked it to find a message from Captain Phasma._

 

_Twenty left, it said._

 

_There were at least a hundred sentients still standing in the village square. His datapad pinged again._

 

_Or we could leave all of them, it said._

 

_Bren took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He could taste the soot in the air, and the rotting damp of the planet itself._

 

_He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and got to work._

 

_It was easy enough to sort them, he told himself. He could be rational and make the most logical decisions to save the largest number of the living. The ones to live were escorted to his right, to the single remaining civilian shuttle. The others were directed to the left._

 

_The over-sized sentients could stay behind. Why save one life in the place of three?_

 

_The elderly could stay. The journey to a new planet and home would be difficult, and many would not survive, anyway._

 

_The crowd caught on quickly to what was going on, and Bren had a moment of concern for his safety as they grew angry and fearful, but he had an entire battalion of stormtroopers here, to enforce his decisions._

 

_No, he told himself, he couldn’t just leave the troopers here in place of the civilians. He would be court-martialed for such an action._

 

_Prestor watched in horror with the dwindling number of villagers as Bren made his judgements. Who would live and who would die. Who was worth saving, and who was not. Bren stood tall, a cold, terrifying figure of black and red, a god of death._

 

_The space on the shuttles dwindled. The very sick could stay behind, Bren told himself. And the very weak and infirm._

 

_At the very last, the only people left were a young mother and her two children. Twins, they looked like. A young boy and girl. There were only two spaces left on the shuttle for evacuees._

 

_Bren looked the children in the eyes. They were so young, with wide dark eyes. Bren felt his heart nearly stop. They didn’t… they couldn’t remind him of his brother’s eyes._

 

_Unable to decide, Bren looked up at the mother. “Choose,” he said to her, his voice flat. “One of your children must stay behind to wait for the next shuttle.”_

 

_They both knew that there was no other shuttle coming. The woman’s face paled. “I…” her voice was soft, but harsh, like she had been screaming, or crying. “I choose myself. Take them both to safety.”_

 

_“No,” Bren said. He told himself it was because he was following the protocol he set for himself. A strong young woman should not be sacrificed in place of a small weak child. “You must choose one of them to stay.”_

 

_She was shaking, and she sank to her knees, her arms wrapping around her children as she stared up at Bren. “Don’t ask this of me,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t ask this of me…”_

 

_“Choose,” Bren said. He would not back down in front of his own men. He would not show weakness. He would endure even this. Because this was asked of him. For the Empire._

 

_“You cannot expect a mother to-”_

 

_“Woman,” Bren said. “If you do not choose, I will take care of the matter, and both will stay.” He rested his hand on the grip of his blaster at his hip, so that she could not possibly mistake his meaning. Prestor could feel the pain in his other hand, where he was digging his nails into his palm so deep, he could feel blood against his fingertips. Bren hoped that it would scar._

 

_Tears were falling freely, dripping from the woman’s face to fall into her children’s hair. “No…” she whispered. It was not a refusal, but a denial. Bren lifted the blaster from its holster anyway._

 

_Prestor felt the young mother’s terror, her fear, the sudden imagining of her children’s lifeblood seeping into the dirt at her feet. She couldn’t choose, she couldn’t possibly choose. This was too much to bear! What kind of mother could choose a child to die? But choose she must, and she saw nothing but death in the pale eyes of the man who towered over her…_

 

_To her everlasting horror and shame, she made the impossible choice._

 

_“I choose her,” she said. “My little girl, my baby, my…”_

 

_The young mother pressed a quick kiss to her daughter’s curls. “Stay here, sweetheart.” She stood and took her boy’s hand in her own and led him past Bren. “Come along, Finn.”_

 

_Bren stared down at the abandoned child in front of him, her eyes beginning to fill with tears as she looked up at him. All he had to do now was walk away, to leave her on this doomed planet in the company of the dead, to wait. To watch as red fire spilled across the sky and ignited the atmosphere, as oxygen sparked into fire in her lungs, as she burned alive._

 

_Bren raised his pistol to her forehead and pulled the trigger. She did not suffer._

 

Prestor stumbled to the fresher and emptied his stomach. That dream… was not of the future. Bren had been wearing a Lieutenant’s uniform. That dream was of the past.

 

He felt terrible, sweaty and clammy all over, his body shaking, his insides clenching, writhing. Hate and horror were gnawing at him: horror at what Bren had done, his own brother… and hate. Hate for the people that had put Bren in the situation, hate for the General of the _Finalizer,_ hate for the Empire…

 

“Pres? It’s alright, I’m here.”

 

Pretor looked up at Bren’s face. It was just a dream. These dreams couldn’t possibly…

 

Carefully, Pres took Bren’s left hand in his own. “Br-e-en." Sobs fragmented his brother’s name into three syllables. “ I-I have so many dreams. They… they’re just dreams, right? They can’t be real. I dream such impossible things.”

 

Prestor gently uncurled his brother’s fingers and gazed at the palm of Bren’s left hand. They were white, now. Tiny, raised moons carved into Bren’s palm by his own nails.

 

Prestor could feel it, how Bren had closed this away. He never told anyone, not even Phasma, not General Biggs, not the Commandant… no one. No one knew how Bren had cried to himself that night until the tears wouldn’t come anymore and he was left with dry, cracking sobs twisting his body for endless hours. He never showed anyone the marks on his hand, covering them up with gloves and wrapping his palm when he couldn’t wear gloves. He didn’t let them heal properly. He was careful not to damage any nerves or ligaments, but he never put any bacta on them, never bandaged them. And when everything was too much, when he had to make difficult decisions or the stress pushed him too far or any number of things, he would stand calm and upright, his nails digging in again, and sometimes when he was alone he would pull out a tiny medical scalpel and delicately carve them open again. Those four moons would never leave him. He would carry them forever in his left hand.

 

What he couldn’t figure out now was why Pres was behaving so strangely, running his fingers across them like they were precious gems in his skin. There was no way Pres could know why they were there, though the shape made _what_ they were fairly obvious. No one knew. No one knew what Bren had done, what he was capable of doing. Pres was crying, probably still over the night terror, but when one of those tears landed on the white moons Bren shivered.

 

“Bren,” Prestor sobbed, but then forced himself to gain some control back, even if only his voice. “I… I have such terrible dreams. I can’t keep going like this… I can’t… I can’t take this…”

 

Falling to his knees, Bren wrapped his arms around his little brother. “Pres,” he breathed, sleep still clouding the edges of his mind. Perhaps that’s why the next words escaped him, words that shot fire through Prestor’s soul. “I would enter your dreams if I could, and guard you there, and slay the things that hound you, as I would if they faced me in daylight. But… your dreams are beyond me, Pres. I…”

 

Prestor shuddered. “Bren,” he whispered into his brother’s shoulder. “I have to tell you.”

 

“Tell me what?”

 

Prestor pulled back a little so he could look into Bren’s eyes. “My dreams… they’re so real. They aren’t just dreams, Bren.” He tugged on Bren’s left hand, exposing the scars there again. “I dreamed of when you got these. That’s how I’m sure now, that they’re real. I saw the girl-”

 

Quick as lightning, Bren swung his free hand up to slap Prestor’s face so hard his ears rang. The strangest part was that he saw it coming, knew he could dodge or block it, and chose to let Bren hit him instead.

 

Prestor fell to the cold tile, his shoulder thudding on the hard surface. He didn’t move, just stared up at Bren.

 

Bren. His fiery hair in disarray, his chest heaving with fury.

 

No. Prestor looked deeper. He dipped fingertips into Bren’s mind and felt himself pulled in, felt everything Bren felt, everything he gloried in and suppressed and even the things he himself didn’t know were there.

 

There was anger, yes. But it was also fear, and uncertainty, and hurt and shame _._ _How can he possibly know what I did? No one knows._ And hopeful and fond and fiercely protective and pained. _Out of all the people to find out, it had to be Pres._ That aching longing that twisted through every thought Bren had about Prestor. Despair. Yearning. Grief. A strange, hot desire to press against the red handprint forming on Prestor’s cheek. There were feelings for Prestor that Bren didn’t understand, couldn't _make_ himself understand.

 

And for the space of a heartbeat, Prestor saw himself through Bren’s eyes. He saw himself both delicate and unbreakable, both divine and animal, both velvet and steel. Porcelain skin flecked with delicate points of dark pigment placed by a master artisan. Eyes like water at night, and the tears that were falling from them now threatened Bren more violently than armies.

 

Prestor had no idea. In Bren’s eyes, he was beautiful.

 

He pushed himself up, and extended a shaking hand to Bren’s jaw. “I want to show you,” he whispered, and his brother did not pull away. “What I see when I look at you.”

 

Prestor had no idea what he was doing, but it felt inevitable. They had already tumbled from the cliff’s edge. He pressed his palm to skin and carefully, gently sent his thoughts to Bren’s mind.

 

Every gesture, every miniscule motion that Bren ever graced him with. Every flicker of slate-green eyes, the way they changed to the color of a tropical bay when the sun struck them and pupils contracted. The quirk of the corner of his mouth when he teased, the flutter of pale lashes as he drifted to sleep, and the way he granted touches to Prestor like heavenly gifts to be treasured, and treasured they were. Prestor lingered on his hair for a moment, lost in the breathless want to run his fingers through it and mess it up, free it from all restraint. He showed Bren how he woke up in the mornings, lately, safe at last from every possible danger because they were breathing in the same air and their limbs were tangled around each other.

 

Bren jerked back, away, severing the fledgling connection Prestor had forged. “What the _hell,_ ” he breathed. “Pres-”

 

Prestor didn’t let him finish. He surged forward. He’d never kissed anyone before, and he had no idea what he was doing, but he needed this if he was to keep breathing. His hands came up to hold Bren’s face still so he could feel those lips against his, slack with shock and then tightening into a snarl, pulling back to expose teeth. Fingers dug into shoulders, and Bren pushed him away.

 

“Pres,” he breathed. “What the fuck are you-”

 

“You wanted me to,” Pres all but whimpered. “You’ve wanted me to for a long time.”

 

Bren’s eyes were wide, his pupils huge with want so there was hardly any green left at all. “Shit,” he whispered. “Shit, shit, shit, shit-”

 

They collided together, sending sparks into the night. Bren kissed like he was dying. Prestor drank up Bren’s curses, lapping them up with his tongue and biting more free. Bren’s hands were in his hair, tangling and twisting and pulling. Their knees hurt from kneeling on the hard floor, but it hardly seemed to matter because Prestor was trying as hard as he could to bury himself between Bren’s ribs to live alongside his heartbeat.

 

Their thoughts blurred together into yes and there and need you. It got harder and harder for Prestor to tell where his thoughts ended and Bren’s began, but Bren seemed able to tell, at least. He could sort them out after this…

 

Bren bit Prestor’s lip, drawing out a shaky moan that sent fire through their blood. The only way Prestor could think to get him back was to put his mouth everywhere on Bren, to press that small throbbing bit of bruising to Bren’s ear, just under his jaw, his neck, his collarbone...

 

_Bed. Bed. Bed. Bed._

 

But they didn’t quite make it to either bed, collapsing to the floor in a desperate, floundering heap of limbs and mouths. It was inelegant, and crude and far from effortless. It was exquisite.

 

Prestor didn’t dream at all the rest of the night.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Cedes waited patiently. It was a skill she had cultivated over the years, and it was not one that came easily. She wasn’t entirely sure why the Emperor had summoned her in the middle of the night, nor why she was waiting, now… though, she supposed, she had a few good guesses. Whatever was going to happen, now-

 

Well. Whatever happened now she would make it work to her advantage, just as she always had.

 

At last, the droid beckoned her forward and granted her entrance to the audience chamber.

 

The room was not the massive Imperial throne room, meant to awe and inspire. It was quiet, and while the single window granted a beautiful wide view, the room still felt intimate.

 

All three of them were there: the Emperor, the Knight, and the Speaker, just as they had been the last time she was summoned to meet with them alone. None of them were in any way improved, and she barely held back a sneer as she bent her knees and lowered her head in only the slightest show of deference.

 

“Your Majesty,” she addressed the center figure. “Your hospitality droid needs reprogramming. It neglected to offer to hold my veils while I spoke to you.”

 

A horrific rasping stutter oozed from the cadaverous Emperor. On his behalf, the Speaker stepped slightly forward. “Knight Duchess,” he said, his voice like rotting tree bark. “The Emperor is pleased that you have responded to this summons so favorably. He hopes that this meeting will end with all parties satisfied at the outcome.”

 

Cedes knew rationally that the black veils she wore hid her face well, but they never seemed to hide her reactions from the men in front of her, now. She was starting to think that she’d never been able to hide as much as she thought. “I am a-” she couldn’t make herself say the word _loyal._ “Imperial subject. As the Emperor commands, I must obey.”

 

A thin smile was all she could see of the Speaker’s face. “Now, Knight Duchess, we all know that isn’t _quite_ true.”

 

Darth Vader still hadn’t spoken. He might have been a macabre statue if it weren’t for that horrid, heavy breathing. Cedes ignored him for the moment and focused on the Speaker. She had done extensive digging and lost several of her spies in the process of trying to find out more about the man. However, just as the Knight embodied the military and judicial power of the Emperor, the Speaker stood as the symbol of his political and intelligence branches of influence. Accordingly, Cedes had been able to find out devastatingly little information on him: no date of birth or planet of origin. Only that he was male, presumably humanoid, and a name. She wasn’t even sure if it was a first name or last name. If it was his real name at all.

 

He opened his mouth to speak again. “The Emperor has summoned you here, tonight, to ask if you have considered his offer.”

 

Cedes studied the three figures in front of her. “I have considered,” she said. “And the answer is still no. I have no need or desire to bind myself to some fanatical cult.”

 

The Speaker’s smile grew wider. “The Sith are not ‘some fanatical cult’, your grace. They were once masters of the galaxy, builders and creators, users of the Dark side of the Force, they could bend reality and life itself to their wills. This power could be yours, as well.”

 

Cedes lifted an eyebrow. “I see no grand creations, no great deeds left by these supposed mighty Sith. How powerful can this Force be, if all that remains is dust? I have no reason to seek further power for myself.” _Except, perhaps, to end you and your Empire built on bones._

 

_That can be arranged._

 

Cedes startled. The voice had whispered behind her eyes like dead leaves in the wind. She lifted her chin and swept a disdainful bow. “If I may, Your Majesty, I will see myself home.”

 

As she turned away, however, the voice spoke again. _So eager. So eager you are to condemn your children._

 

Cedes froze, her heart nearly stopped. _Or perhaps you do not love them. Do you know how to love? It is the same as dying…_

 

“Stop it,” she whispered.

 

_You have done such bad... bad things... Terrible things. It corrodes from within, doesn't it? It feeds and feeds yet it is never sated…_

 

Slow, like the struggling hour hand of an old clock, Cedes turned to face the Emperor once again. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew it was his voice she was hearing. Darth Vader and the Speaker had stepped back; they were no longer needed to keep up their charade.

 

_In vain you clutch at the Light with broken fingers, but it betrays you. It knows you are unworthy of its dread gleaming. It doesn't matter if you leave. The Dark is inside you. Your heart, your lungs, your thoughts will all be blackened._

 

“I will not be lectured on my inner darkness by a mass murderer,” Cedes said. Her voice was not as strong as she wished it were at the moment, her jaw aching and the muscles in her back beginning to twitch.

 

_You have done such hurtful things in the name of...what? Freedom? The people who know you would rejoice in your death. You are tainted. The stain will never wash out. Tainted, broken little princess of a graveyard…_

 

Cedes drew in a deep breath. “No,” she rasped. “I am not broken. I am not weak. I will protect what is mine and I will never allow you power over me. Never would I bend knee and call you ‘master’. Farewell, Palpatine. I will answer no further summons.”

 

A silence lasted for a second and an eternity. _Very well. Lord Vader, bring me the children._

 

Cedes couldn’t help but stumble back as Vader took a single step forward. “What?” she demanded, panic beginning to edge into her mind along with the black oil slick voice of the Emperor. “The children?”

 

_Yes. Your children. They have been… well prepared for their roles. The younger… Ben, was it? Vader has told me of the dream-visions, how the child was promised to him long ago by the Force itself. If you will not take up the mantle of the Sith, then it will suit him just as well. As for the other… Brendol... a younger body will be a marvelous vessel, strong and hale, with a face to inspire worlds to kneel and worship._

 

Cedes felt herself shaking. “No,” she whispered. “You can’t hurt them. They… they’re my sons…”

 

_Yet it was your choices that led to this. Deep in the water-shadows of your heart, you must have wanted this._

 

“No!”

 

_You let us take them. You let them be swallowed into the darkness. You wanted this. You are glad, are you not? You wished them pain, to be undone, unthreaded._

 

Cedes whimpered and grabbed at her head, tearing her veils in her fingers, her nails snagging in the fabric.

 

_We drink the sounds you give us. The cries of your young, the gurgle of a freshly-ripped throat. We give thanks for your desperation._

 

Cedes forced her eyes open, saw Vader standing only a few feet from her. He held his weapon, that dreadful lightsaber of his, loose at his side, his grip almost slack, on the side away from the Emperor, almost as if… as if it were an offering.

 

 _It’s the only way._ Vader’s thoughts were low, quieter than the Emperor’s, and consumed by an unimaginable sorrow. _The only way to save both your children is a death. Either my master… or myself._

 

Cedes stared at him, this man she had nursed a hatred for like a fire, feeding scraps of herself into it for years. “I despise you.”

 

_I understand. We have that in common._

 

This was the man who destroyed her home, her people. This was the man who mowed down those who stood in the Empire’s way, even innocents, in some perverted ideal of justice. This was the man who…

 

_A boy, sandy hair, nearly a man but still very much a boy. Eager eyes. I will never give up, Leia. You’re my only hope._

 

A memory. A ghost she had never been able to ever leave behind… even though she had only known him for such a few bare moments...

 

 _I can feel it._ The Emperor’s voice dripped in h er mind. _I can feel the darkness in you. Do you feel its tortuous path through your mouth and eyes? Dead fingers claw at your fragile skin!_

 

Cedes looked up into the gaping eyes of Vader’s mask. “I will never serve you,” she breathed. “You killed too many things I loved.”

 

The words spoken, she reached for his proffered lightsaber. She didn’t even have to finish the movement; the weapon leapt into her hands like it had simply been awaiting her call.

 

_You have chosen…_

 

Cedes didn’t let the Emperor finish. She flicked the blade to life, a bright beam of red, and found herself in front of the Emperor. She didn’t remember walking over to him, but she must have.

 

“This death is swifter than you deserve,” she said, and swung the lightsaber. It cleaved through his torso and the chair he sat on with almost no resistance, singeing his robes and charring the wood. Years had passed since Cedes had last smelled burning flesh, but it was still familiar to her.

 

The withered pieces of the Emperor fell to the floor.

 

Cedes looked up to see the Speaker shaking his head slightly.

 

“Oh my,” he said. “The Emperor must have died in his sleep, sometime in the night.” He looked over towards Vader. “As both of the heirs live, I say that it is the elder, Brendol, that should inherit the crown. Do you agree, Lord Vader?”

 

Cedes turned to look at Vader, switching off his lightsaber. He gazed at her for a moment, and the hair at the back of her neck stood on end. “Yes,” he finally said. “That would be for the best.”

 

He held out his hand, and the lightsaber tugged its way free to reunite with its owner. Cedes straightened her skirts. It had been a few years since she had actually killed with her own hands. The feeling was still repulsive, but-

 

_You will learn quickly. You are strong in the Force._

 

Cedes straightened her shoulders and swept her way past both Speaker and Knight to leave the room. Her skin prickled again, just as she reached the door, and she turned to see Vader staring after her.

 

“What is it?” she demanded.

  
Much to her surprise, he bowed his head towards her. “My Lady,” he said softly. “Forgive me. For a moment, you looked exactly like your mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You do not yet have paper bones,  
> But that can change quickly,  
> Like a sudden shift in the wind.  
> Be ready to shake off the rust of your ancestors.
> 
> Details about chapter warnings:
> 
> Incest: Prestor and Bren have a sexual encounter.
> 
> Character Death: The Death Star is fired on an inhabited planet. The Emperor dies.
> 
> Character Death/Violence Towards a Child: Prestor dreams about Bren shooting a young girl in the head. Not described in graphic detail, but there's a lot of emotions.
> 
> Self-Harm: Bren regularly digs his fingernails into his skin until he bleeds, and occasionally even uses a scalpel to cut those marks open again.
> 
> Holocaust Imagery: Empire propaganda paints the Death Star's destructive actions in a patriotic light. Also, Prestor's dream about Bren is heavily inspired by a true account given by a concentration camp survivor.
> 
> Disturbing Imagery for the Dark Side: Palpatine attempts to bring Cedes to the Dark Side, and the description of him doing so is very unpleasant (not in any kind of sexual way, now that I read that sentence. There's just a lot of talk of corruption and the horrible things that Cedes has already done.


	10. The Towers I Watched When I Was Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most uncomfortable morning-after. The Commandant's retirement party is a night to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of light.  
> I wished for paper bones, but the truth had far too much weight. Nothing I did was enough. I could not turn my bones to paper, no matter how hard I tried, hoped, pretended, prayed. So I despaired. And hid myself away.  
> But there was a miracle.  
> I turned into light.  
> Now I can wrap myself around the House of Paper Bones and protect them forever.

The breakfast table in the morning was a little bizarre. Everything felt… _very_ real. The food Prestor practically shoveled into his mouth tasted incredible, every spice and flavor strong and perfect. He couldn’t stop a little sigh of delight after a particularly good bite.

 

Bren scoffed. “You’re so weird,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Prestor gestured at Bren’s plate. “Have you _tried_ the spiced cake?”

 

Bren raised a dismissive eyebrow. “It wasn’t _that_ good.”

 

Prestor grinned and tipped his head. “ _I_ thought it was pretty good.” He bit his lower lip.

 

It was worth it to see Bren’s cheeks turn red at the double meaning. In retaliation, he gave Prestor a sharp kick to the shins under the table.

 

“Ow!” snapped Prestor, mostly in mock surprise, and flicked one of the guaraná berries on his plate at Bren to bounce off his shirt.

 

“Boys,” said Cedes, her voice low. “If you can’t keep from touching each other for five minutes of breakfast then you can eat in opposite corners of the room like the schoolchildren you obviously are.” Bren and Prestor didn’t look at each other for a minute or two.

 

Something was bothering Cedes. Prestor wanted to ask, but there was an air to her demeanor this morning that he had never seen from her. His mother was being withdrawn, introspective, it seemed. Prestor had seen her thoughts turn inward before, usually when she was planning how to dispatch a political rival or other danger to her family, but this was different.

 

“Bren,” said the Commandant. “Did you visit your friend yesterday? What was her name… Phasma?”

 

Bren glanced at the Commandant and set down his mug of caf. “Yes, I did,” he said. “...Why do you ask, sir?”

 

The Commandant didn’t answer with words, only looked Bren in the eye and tapped two fingers against the side of his own neck.

 

Bren’s eyes went wide, and his hand flew to cover the purple bruise that Prestor had somehow not noticed until his father pointed it out. Very quietly, sounding a bit strangled, Bren said, “May I be excused?”

 

“You may.”

 

Bren made as dignified a retreat as he could, while Prestor kept his eyes fixed on his plate. He thanked whatever gods… he thanked the _Force_ that he had chosen to wear a high-collared shirt to breakfast.

 

Cedes was actually looking at him, now, a questioning brow raised. Prestor felt his face flush. There was no way she could know what was going on… right? Then again, this was Cedes. She knew many things. Gently, Prestor reached out his mind towards her.

 

She met him halfway.

 

They both jumped in their seats, a ringing in their heads like feedback from a broken comm looping through itself. Prestor felt his world tip a little bit, reality skewing itself. Images flashed in front of his eyes: a moon, stars, mountains, snow stained with blood. He shuddered, and felt his mother do the same.

 

The Commandant was saying something, blissfully unaware of the world changing in front of him. “...so flustered about. Why when I was his age-”

 

“Yes,” Cedes snapped. “Because the boys should aspire to be like you in every way.”

 

Bren walked back into the room, a scarf around his neck. He gave Prestor a look. A look that must have caused Prestor to react on some level, because now Cedes was staring at him blatantly. Instinctively, Prestor reached out to her, again, and again he got only ringing in his ears, this time with the smell of smoke and metal. Both he and Cedes flinched just as Bren was sitting down.

 

“What is going on with you two?” Cedes demanded of Bren, not even looking at Prestor anymore. Frantic, Prestor tried to do whatever Luke must have been doing all along, shielding the minds of others.

 

“With them?” The Commandant said. “Cedes, what is wrong with _you_?”

 

The door chimed, and the four of them continued to try to stare each other down. Prestor found himself thinking of the lightsaber stowed between his mattress and the wall, and he felt Bren think of his pistol and the Commandant of his cane-blaster. He didn’t dare wonder what his mother was thinking of.

 

The door chimed again. Cedes cleared her throat and smoothed her hands over her dress. “Pres,” she said quietly. “Would you go and see who is at the door?”

 

“Sure,” he said. _Don’t look at Bren’s mind._

 

The corners of her mouth twitched. Prestor couldn’t tell if it was almost a frown or a smile. _I won’t._ _But you and I need to talk._

 

Prestor tried to smile at her, failed, and went to get the door.

 

There stood a nondescript man, unremarkable in any way other than the impressive scar across his forehead. Dark straight hair, dark eyes, olive skin. Very average. If not for that scar, he would vanish in a crowd of humans.

 

The man smiled. “Hello, Prestor Hux,” he said. “I’ve come to deliver some news to you and your family.”

 

Hearing his voice, Prestor was able to place him. “Of course, Speaker,” he said. “Come in.”

 

The Speaker nodded and followed Prestor into the dining area, where it seemed everyone else had managed to not draw any weapons on each other.

 

Cedes rose from her seat and swept a graceful curtsey, while the Commandant and Bren bowed. “Speaker,” she said quietly. “You honor us with your presence.”

 

“Yes,” said the Commandant, coming around the table to greet their guest. “Welcome, Speaker. We were not expecting you, but you are certainly welcome to join our family for breakfast, if you wish.”

 

The Speaker’s eyes glanced around the room, but Prestor could feel his mind recording every detail, from the food on their plates to Bren’s scarf to the art on the walls to the scurrying droid server. “Alas,” said the Speaker. “I cannot stay; I am only here on business. I felt it best that I come in person for this.” He straightened his shoulders and walked around to stand in front of Bren.

 

“Emperor Sheev Palpatine passed from this life during the night. My Lord.” The Speaker bowed low to Bren, whose face gave away nothing. “Do you accept the offer of the Empire? Will you take up sword and crown to lead the galaxy into the future? Will you become Emperor?”

 

Bren’s eyes burned with steel-fire. “Yes.”

 

The Speaker stood up again, smiling. “Whithersoever you lead, the Empire is yours, my Lord.” His smile changed into something more amused. “There is no precedent to follow. None other before you has taken the crown of the Emperor in this way. Emperor Palpatine forged the Empire out of the Old Republic; he did not inherit anything. There are no traditions, nothing before now to guide you. We could hold some sort of ceremony, if you wish. A coronation. You could make a speech. There are some details that need to be settled; we’ll have to hold several meetings, I’m sure.”

 

Prestor felt like the Speaker certainly deserved his title. The man seemed overly fond of the sound of his own voice. “Thank you, Speaker,” said Bren. “Some sort of ceremony would probably be appropriate, as a way to announce things formally.”

 

The Speaker’s brows lifted. “Put on a show for the people?”

 

“Exactly,” said Bren. “There’s a party for my father’s retirement tonight at the Naberrie estate. The rumors are sure to be flying by then.”

 

“You will definitely have to put in an appearance, then.”

 

“Of course.” Prestor could feel Bren’s confusion. Of course he would go to the party; why wouldn’t he? Why had the Speaker said that? “I feel that the day after tomorrow would be the appropriate time for a coronation. Allow the people a time to mourn the previous Emperor.”

 

“And to give yourself time to set plans into place,” said the Speaker. “I understand, my Lord Prince. I will see to the arrangements. If there is anything I can do to serve you, simply let me know. And if there is anything in which I require your input…”

 

“You will let me know. Thank you, Speaker.”

 

The Speaker swept a final bow and gave his farewells, which lasted a long time for someone who insisted he was very busy and in a hurry, thought Prestor. At last the Hux family was left to themselves and the put-upon droid trying to clear away plates as inconspicuously as possible. The penthouse was very quiet, after the Speaker left. No one said anything, or even looked at each other. Prestor shored up his mental walls and didn’t reach out to his mother again.

 

The day was long, the hours stretching out into centuries as far as Prestor was concerned. Luke had told him not to come over on the day of the party, said it would spoil the surprise. So Prestor sat on a chair he’d hauled out to the balcony, his datapad in hand. He watched the news of the Emperor’s death spread over the holonet, everyone and every planet seeming to try to one-up each other in displays of mourning, holos of women weeping and children solemnly holding white flowers. It left a sour taste in his mouth, so he decided instead to spend his time practicing meditations and sending passive-aggressive messages to Luke. The responses grew increasingly sarcastic until Prestor got a message that truly made him smile.

 

 _hi ben this is rey dad gave me the data pad and told me to enter tame you_ _because we are both spoiled kids the party is to night i am so excited i want to meet you’re brother is he nice_

 

_Yes. He’s very nice. I think you’ll like him. I’m excited for the party, too._

 

“Avoidance seems to be working for you.”

 

Prestor nearly jumped out of his skin. “Kriffing hell!” he snarled. “Is it the sole purpose of your afterlife to scare at least ten years off my lifespan?” He scowled up at the ghost.

 

Kenobi smiled and laughed lightly. “I wish it were, young one,” he said. “That would make things much less difficult for me.”

 

The datapad pinged and Prestor looked down at the new message.

 

_i think i felt you think of old ben is he there tell him i say hi_

 

“Well,” said Prestor. “What _are_ you doing here? Come to give me more cryptic advice?”

 

Kenobi shrugged. “It’s part of the job description.”

 

“What job description?”

 

“As far as I can tell, fool who entangled himself too far with a friend.”

 

Another message. _you didn’t say hi for me don't be mean tell him espee says hi to_

 

When Prestor looked back up at Kenobi, he caught a flash of sorrow. “A friend?”

 

Warm blue eyes gazed through Prestor, to a time and place far away and long ago. “More than a friend. He was… like a brother to me. I loved him dearly.”

 

_Fire. Smoke. The taste of ash. You were my brother, Anakin! I loved you!_

 

Both Kenobi and Prestor had to look away from each other for a moment. The hum of the city carried on around them, millions and millions of lives being lived within reach. The datapad pinged again.

 

_you feel sad ben i’m sorry i yelled at you i’m thinking a really good hug at you can you catch it theirs one for old ben to_

 

Much to his delight, Prestor did, in fact, feel like there were loving arms around him for a moment. He looked up to see Kenobi smile.

 

“She’s wonderful,” the ghost said softly. “A bright hope. But, thankfully, not our only hope.” He gestured with one hand. “Well? Are you going to thank her? Don’t be rude to the young lady.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Prestor lowered his head to type out his message.

 

_Thank you, Rey. That was the best hug I’ve ever had in my life. Old Ben says thank you, too._

 

When he looked up, Kenobi was gone, but that didn’t surprise him.

 

Across the way, on the other balcony, Prestor saw her, the young woman he had seen before. His wordless friend. She had on a beautiful gown and jewels like ice sparkled at her neck and hands. With a look of intense concentration, she was combing her fingers through her hair, twisting at the dark curls in an attempt to get them to obey her command. Prestor smiled. It looked like she was getting ready to go out somewhere, to a place or people that she felt deserved getting dressed up for. A yearning he didn’t expect rose in his chest. Maybe she was going to the Naberrie estate, to the party for the Commandant. Maybe Prestor would get to see her there, could hear her voice, learn her name. He desperately wanted to.

 

She turned, and her eyes met his. Her entire face and being lit up with joy, her smile nearly blinding. Prestor felt himself returning that smile, and he raised his hand to wave to her. As soon as her hands were free of her hair, she waved back, leaning out over the rail of her balcony as if she wished she could fly over to him.

 

“Pres? It’s getting late. You should probably start getting ready. Who are you waving at?”

 

Prestor turned around to smile at Bren. “Just the girl over there. I’ll start getting ready if you’re done in the ‘fresher.”

 

Bren frowned and tugged at his sleeves. “When’s the last time I told you how weird you are?”

 

“At breakfast.”

 

Bren nodded. “Still true.”

 

Prestor looked back across to the other balcony, but the young woman was gone. He frowned. She didn’t need to leave so quickly, did she?

 

It wasn’t until he had showered and was buttoning up his dress blacks that he remembered. The last time he’d seen her on the balcony, she’d been speaking with the ghost of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Who _was_ she?

 

Prestor heard raised voices coming from outside his room. He hesitated, his hand hovering at the door. It sounded like Bren and the Commandant were arguing about something. A frown settled itself on Prestor’s face. He’d never heard them yell at each other before. He walked out into the gale.

 

“Don’t be foolish, Bren,” the Commandant snapped. “You cannot control every single minute detail of an entire galaxy! It isn’t humanly possible! You _have_ to delegate-”

 

“Not to you, I won’t!” Bren stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his chin high, his eyes sharp. “ _I_ will be Emperor, not you. You can languish on some soft planet chewing your cud for the rest of your days, or you can go back and pretend to be of some use on Arkanis, or find a deserted planet I can aim the Death Star at, for all I care. I owe you nothing, and you hold no power over me!”

 

The Commandant grit his teeth. “I am your father, Brendol! You owe me everything you are!”

 

“Ha!” The sound wasn’t really a laugh. Prestor could feel Bren’s nails digging into his left hand. Red moons. “You? A father? Don’t make me laugh, old man. I am not one of your precious ‘Commandant’s Cadets’, and I will give you no part of my Empire.”

 

A silent shadow, Cedes came to stand next to Prestor. Her veils were not yet covering her face, and Prestor could feel her mind and eyes sharp as knives.

 

“You are weak,” said the Commandant. “You are weak and if you don’t strengthen yourself, you will be the downfall of the Empire. You think you can change the way things are? That you can make a difference? And who will you rely on, to carry out your orders? No one will listen to a frail boy with no concept of how things _really_ work.”

 

Bren blinked several times very quickly and clenched his jaw. “Whoever I appoint to any positions, whoever I choose to listen to, will not be some corrupt old impotent bore who insists that nothing can ever be changed for the better.”

 

“I see,” sneered the Commandant. “You would compromise your hold on power by whoring yourself out to _idealists_ , those who will lead you astray from a purity of purpose.”

 

Bren trembled, his armor struck through. “I won’t-”

 

The Commandant backhanded Bren, the blow snapping his head to one side. Bren kept his eyes lowered and lifted a shaking hand to his reddening cheek.

 

Cedes put a hand on Prestor’s shoulder, stopping him from stepping forward. “Brendol,” she said, her voice like heat lightning.

 

Both father and son turned to her, but she was looking at the Commandant. “If you ever touch my son again,” she continued. “You are a dead man.”

 

The Commandant scoffed. “He isn’t your son, Cedes. Or did you forget that detail?”

 

Prestor felt his mother hold herself back. “You want to leave this room, now,” was all she said. She didn’t even use any Force.

 

The Commandant shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Cedes. I never have. You have a fixation on defending weak things.” But he walked away, left the room, holding in his mind the idea that because he had the last word, he had won something.

 

Bren’s eyes were on the floor, his hand still on his face. “Prestor,” Cedes said. “Go finish getting ready. You need to shave before we go.”

 

“But-”

 

She raised her eyebrows at him. The trump card of mothers. _Go, Pres. If you really want, you can listen in, but he won’t talk to me with you around._

 

Prestor sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, and stomped his way back to his and Bren’s room. Slamming his door shut, he tried to attain a state of enough calm that he wouldn’t cut open his face while he shaved.

 

Once he’d managed that calm, he softly sent his mind out to Cedes.

 

_The Force. Mother. Son. Light. Dark. Push. Pull. Rise. Fall. You. Me. Yes. Together._

 

Prestor marveled at the control Cedes had. How long had she been practicing using the Force?

 

_A very long time, I think. Formal training, on the other hand… I will tell you later._

 

_Bren?_

 

_He’ll be alright. It’s hardly swollen at all. You can’t tell._

 

_I meant-_

 

_I know. Listen._

 

Bren was staring down at his hands, soft white leather gloves with tiny pearl buttons at the wrists. “I wish… I wish I knew what I’m doing, what I’m going to do.”

 

“No one really does know what they are doing,” Cedes said quietly. “Anyone who thinks otherwise is deluding themselves. A healthy amount of self-doubt is a good thing.” She leaned forward to tug Bren’s collar to sit straight. “Just don’t let it overwhelm you.”

 

“I wish…”

 

“... I know.” She tugged him forward so that she could plant a kiss on his temple to grow there. Prestor could smell Bren’s hair. “If it makes you feel any better, Bren, if I didn’t think you could do this, I wouldn’t let you.”

 

He threw her a crooked smile, but there were still the last aftershocks of tears behind it. “Wouldn’t let me?”

 

But he knew, and Cedes knew, and Prestor knew, that she could stop him if she wanted. And strangely, somehow, that _did_ make things a little bit better.

 

By the time they were all ready to go, the sun was dipping lower in the sky, painting the high clouds vivid orange and soft pinks. Prestor thought this was the time of day that Coruscant was at its most beautiful, the tall spires standing black against the sky or else reflecting the sunset back at itself, glass windows doing their best to capture the colors and nearly succeeding. Bren sat next to him in the transport, their shoulders touching. The Commandant and Cedes sat across from them, both staring out their windows. No one spoke.

 

 _I’m sorry._ Prestor sent the thought towards Bren. _I shouldn’t have avoided you all day._

 

Prestor felt Bren pull in a deep breath and then let it out. Cedes glanced towards them, but she pulled her mind away, granting them at least a little bit of privacy.

 

 _Your weirdness continues._ Bren thought. _I’d almost convinced myself that I dreamed up the telepathy thing._

 

_Try living with it._

 

Bren bumped an elbow into Prestor’s rib cage. _How are you doing this?_

 

Prestor didn’t want to keep any secrets from Bren. Not ever, if he could help it. _It’s called the Force. Or at least that’s what Count Naberrie tells me. It’s somewhere at the intersection of unification theoretical science, magic, and religion. Telepathy isn’t the only thing._ Prestor pulled up images, memories. Moving a glass across a table with his mind. The sparse hour or so of lightsaber training Luke had allowed.

 

_You have a laser-sword?_

 

_It’s called a lightsaber, and it’s very honorable and traditional and should be spoken of with respect._

 

_Sure. Sure. But you have one? Did you bring it with you?_

 

_Yes, I have one. No, it’s not with me. Where would I even be hiding it?_

 

_Maybe you shoved it up your-_

 

“Look at that!” Prestor said tightly. “We’re here! That was fast!”

 

In the dusk, the Naberrie Manor glittered like a delicate opal, blazing with light and color. Tiny lights sparkled throughout the terraced balcony gardens. Garlands of flowers were draped everywhere, their heavy blooms scenting the air. Dozens upon dozens of transports hovered around the building, waiting for their chance to let their passengers free into the evening. The Commandant’s transport, of course, was given priority, and Prestor felt he hardly caught his breath before the four of them were walking into the grand ballroom. Men, women, nobility from Coruscant and beyond, fluttered around the room like jeweled butterflies.

 

The moment the Commandant entered the room, an elegantly dressed Luke seemed to appear at his side. “My dear Commandant!” he exclaimed, his smile lofty and full of air. “Our guest of honor! Thank you, sir, for granting me this opportunity.”

 

The Commandant and Luke shook hands and nodded very short bows to each other. “I’m not usually one for fancy parties, Count Naberrie,” said the Commandant. “But your invitation was so heartfelt that I could not resist. May I introduce to you my wife, Knight-Duchess of Arkanis Cedes Hux, my son Prince Brigadier-General Brendol Hux Jr., and my younger son Ben Prestor Hux.”

 

Cedes held out her hand, and with genuine reverence that pulled at Prestor’s heart, Luke took her hand and bowed himself over it. “My Lady,” he said. “If there is ever any way I can serve you, you need only speak the word.” Cedes must have felt it, too. The sincerity in everything Luke said to her, in the same place it had been last time they met on Arkanis. Prestor felt her try to peek at Luke’s mind, but it was as futile as Prestor’s attempts.

 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said quietly.

 

Luke turned to Bren. “I have heard many things about Brigadier-General Hux,” he said with a smile. “All of them good.”

 

Bren seemed to be practicing his meaningless politician’s smile. He was unnervingly adept at it. “Surely there are _some_ negative reports on my character,” he said. “If there aren’t, I will have to redouble my efforts at infamy.”

 

Luke actually laughed at that, and Prestor thought he heard a little bit of real amusement in the sound. “Well,” he said. “A friend of mine _may_ have said something about an incident on the _Finalizer_ involving a medical droid and a misplaced pair of boots.”

 

To Prestor’s great enjoyment, Bren flushed bright red. “You're friends with Captain Phasma?”

 

“She and I have spoken once or twice. I invited her tonight, but she said she had a prior engagement. I’m very happy to meet you, Brigadier-General. I hope you enjoy your evening.” Luke turned fluidly to Prestor. “And young Prestor Hux. Congratulations on your recent graduation.”

 

“Thank you, Count.”

 

Cedes took a small step forward. “What about you, Count Naberrie? Are we lucky enough that we can meet your family tonight?”

 

Luke turned his smile on her once again. “My daughter, Rey, is around here, somewhere. She is, unfortunately for a doting father, alarmingly social. I’m sure she will show up at some point to introduce herself.”

 

“And your husband?”

 

“Unfortunately, San has been off-world on business for the last week. He was hoping to be back in time for the party, but I’m afraid he won’t quite make it in time.”

 

Cedes quirked a brow. “How fortunate for him.”

 

Luke valiantly chose to ignore Cedes' barbed remark. “If you would, Commandant and family, please enjoy yourselves to the fullest this evening. My home is yours.” He leaned a bit closer to the Commandant, as if sharing a secret. “And if you become bored of the festivities, my dear Commandant, just let me know. I have a bottle of Corellian brandy I’ve been saving for a special occasion, and I think it would be best enjoyed in a quieter setting than a ballroom.”

 

The Commandant chuckled. “Of course, Count.”

 

Much to Prestor’s surprise, Luke settled a companionable hand on the Commandant’s shoulder and began steering him into the ballroom, chattering away about the virtues of Corellian alcohol and Corellian manufacturing. They disappeared quickly into the crowd, though Prestor found he could still follow the bright spot of Luke’s mind with ease.

 

Cedes and Bren were both staring at him. “What?” he asked.

 

“What is he up to?” asked Bren.

 

Prestor shifted his feet. “The Commandant?”

 

“Don’t play the fool, Pres,” snapped Bren, still managing to keep his smile in place. “It’s frighteningly convincing.”

 

Cedes closed in. “Pres,” she said quietly. “You’ve been training with him, haven’t you. What do you know?”

 

Prestor bristled. “Maybe I should be asking who _you’ve_ been training with, mother.”

 

“That is a conversation you and I need to have later, with not so many eyes and ears around. Answer the question, Pres. What is Count Naberrie up to?”

 

“I don’t know!” Prestor said. “I asked him, but then he asked if I really wanted to know or if I wanted plausible deniability. I decided that I would rather not know, so as far as I’m concerned, I’m only here for the food. I’ll see you two later.”

 

Prestor turned and marched his way into the crowd, ignoring Cedes frustration and Bren’s sudden, familiar longing that followed after him.

 

The party itself, Prestor had to admit, was rather spectacular. Live musicians, both small ensembles and single players, roamed the rooms, filling the air with sweet notes that floated above the heads of the most influential people in the galaxy. Powerful merchants, wealthy businessmen and women, and high-ranking military officers all rubbed shoulders and elbows. Prestor had never seen any servants around the estate other than the single, put-upon droid Espee, so the smartly-dressed young men and women holding trays of food and drink must have been hired just for the occasion. Sweet perfumes and light, spicy scents of delicacies from every world drifted through doorways and lingered in corners.

 

Prestor was glad, now, of his wandering around Coruscant practicing control of his mind. He felt like he could have been easily overwhelmed by the throng of party-goers and all their minds without it. In fact… he thought back to the holiday in Coronet City with Mitaka and Dameron, how he’d felt overpowered by the crowd.

 

Now, he could both shelter his mind from the masses and reach out to individuals at the same time. He found his mother, speaking quietly to a group of women with shrewd eyes. Rey and Bren were both simple to find, as well. They were together, in fact. Prestor smiled when Rey reached back to him with joy spilling out of her. She had herded Bren into a chair, and had climbed up onto his lap.

 

“This is Lumpy,” she said, introducing Bren to her doll. “She was captured by bad guys but then Chewie saved her and he fixed her head and now she’s mine.”

 

Bren let slip a real smile, and Rey nearly burst with happiness. “It’s very nice to meet you, Lumpy,” he said formally.

 

Rey looked at Bren like Bren looked at Prestor when he said something stupid. “She’s a doll. She can’t talk. That’s okay, though, because you and I can talk to each other.”

 

 _He was sad._ Rey informed Prestor. _And then he got more sad when I started talking to him. But he’s starting to feel less sad, now. Did you see that smile?_

 

_Yes. Thank you, Rey. I’ve never seen him smile quite like that. You’re helping him with something I can’t._

 

_I like helping him. You were right. He’s nice. Way nicer than you, gungan-ears._

 

_Nicer than you, too, shortcake._

 

The food was really good, and Prestor made sure to ask the servers which drinks had alcohol before indulging. Now was not the time to be dulling his senses. He could feel the energy building in the air, the scent of ozone splitting through the perfumes and flowers. His hair felt like it was standing on end, and at every loud burst of laughter he resisted the urge to dive to the floor and cover his head.

 

At last, the lightning crashed.

 

_Ben._

 

He tried not to flinch too much outwardly at Luke’s voice in his head. _I’m here, Luke._

 

_Good. It’s time. Come to the meditation room and… yes. Yes, I think it would be best if you bring your brother. Stay quiet._

 

_Alright._

 

Bren was standing in a group of military officers and nobles, his empty smile back in place as he watched them go increasingly alarming lengths to fawn over the rumored future Emperor. His eyes flickered over to Prestor.

 

_Get me out of here, Pres, before I shoot one of them._

 

“Bren!” Prestor said loudly. “Thank the stars, I really need your help.”

 

Bren scoffed. “That’s nothing new, Prestor.” He nodded at the clump of people around him. “Pardon, ladies and gentlemen, but I am required elsewhere.” And he let Prestor pull him away. _Thank you._

 

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Prestor said under his breath. “I really do need you.”

 

Bren went quiet for a moment as Prestor led him through quieter and quieter hallways. “Pres,” he said. “I… we can’t get caught.” Prestor caught a flash of thought. A memory _warm skin salt kisses gentle want_

 

Prestor felt his face turn a mortifying shade of red. “Not that!” he said. “Maybe later.” He smiled at Bren and his breath left him all at once. “Later… but right now, Luke told me to bring you along. I think he’s about to make his move.”

 

“Luke?”

 

“Count Naberrie. Here. He told me we had to be quiet.”

 

Prestor found the door and opened it, tugging Bren into the soothing meditation room. The lights were dim, and one wall was transparent, looking into the next room over, a small parlor. Luke was there with the Commandant, and he glanced over to meet Prestor’s eyes for just a moment.

 

“A one-sided window,” Prestor whispered at Bren. He hadn’t known this was here. Bren held his hand, his fingers weaving a reassurance in Prestor’s grip.

 

It looked like Luke and the Commandant had been there for at least a few minutes. They both held glasses of amber brandy, the bottle on the low table between them. The top button of the Commandant’s uniform was undone, but otherwise he still looked ready to command a regiment. Luke looked a bit more disheveled, but Prestor could see the act for what it was.

 

“I really do admire your work with the Academy,” Luke said, his words slightly less carefully formed than usual. “That’s got to be a lot of work, shaping children into soldiers.” He leaned back against the window, the glass black behind him with only a few city lights cutting through.

 

“That is the truth,” the Commandant said, his voice crisp but starting to loosen. He wasn’t sitting, either, instead leaning against the back of a chair, his cane propped up against the arm. “It’s nice to see all my efforts have paid off.”

 

“I have a cousin who entered the Academy a while ago,” said Luke. “I hope he’s doing well. He’s been far too busy to respond to any transmissions or letters I send him.” He took a short sip from his glass. “I know it’s a large school, but maybe you’ve seen him around? His name is Raynar Thul.”

 

The Commandant frowned a little, and lifted his eyes towards the ceiling as if in thought. Prestor had to hand it to him; a person who couldn’t read minds likely wouldn’t notice the spike of emotion in him.

 

“I don’t think I’ve seen him around. But, as you said, it is a large school.” The Commandant chuckled. Luke did not.

 

“Maybe,” Luke went on. “You’ve seen another student around. An orphan, poor kid, but his father was a friend of mine. Zekk Sizinee.”

 

To this name, the Commandant didn’t react at all.

 

“Or,” Luke said. “Perhaps you’ve heard the name Santigo Milon…”

 

“What is it you want, Count?”

 

Luke raised a brow. “What I… want?”

 

“Yes. What do you want? Are you blackmailing me? Is this a way for you to hold some power over a connection to the throne?”

 

Luke tipped his head back and laughed. The sound was dark, and Prestor felt Bren shiver next to him. “Have a seat, Commandant.”

 

The Commandant was too strong-willed to be persuaded by the little amount of Force Luke put in his words. “I will not,” he snapped. “I demand an explanation!”

 

He took a step towards Luke.

 

“I said sit down.” Luke pushed a hand towards the Commandant, and across the room the Commandant staggered back into a chair, brandy splashing from the glass in his hands over the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes were wide, and he briefly struggled against the Force holding him down.

 

“What I want…” Luke said slowly, as if tasting the words. “I want you to _suffer_.”

 

The Commandant made a strange sound, a choked-off kind of cough. “It was all legal,” he snarled. “The Emperor himself-”

 

“I don’t care,” said Luke. “I really, _really_ don’t care. Whether your little slavery ring you had going, selling unnoticed and unwanted students to the Outer Rim, was legal or not, you kept it a secret, and _that_ , my dear Commandant, gave me enough rope to hang you with. There is a platoon of stormtroopers surrounding this building, ready to take you into custody.”

 

The Commandant grew pale, his entire frame shaking. Prestor couldn’t tell if he was still trying to stand up or not. “Why have you done this?” the Commandant demanded. “This… what can you possibly gain from this, Naberrie? What political ploy does this serve?”

 

Luke’s smile grew ghastly. “You were not originally a target of mine. Nothing you have done in your life has negatively affected me… directly.”

 

A shadow fell over Luke’s face, and his smile morphed into a cold stare. “But you had an influence on every cadet who came to that infernal Academy of yours. You molded them into cruel, loyal monsters, encouraged them to hurt each other to win your favor, groomed them into beasts without hearts. You did your sons a great service by denying them both any helping hand at your _school_. It’s because of you that young men who never intended to do any harm would decide to betray their own family, his friend, a friend he’d known all his life!”

 

Luke’s voice rang through the room, an old pain lingering at the edges and cracking through his words. “Even then,” he continued, quiet again. “I was willing to perhaps only kill you, to rid the galaxy of your poison without fanfare, but…” his eyes flickered. “I assumed that when Leia Organa agreed to abandon her former name and title and marry you, that she knew what she was doing. A woman like her would never do something like that without a very good reason. She _had_ to be getting something very significant in return for bedding a festering, putrid umgullian blob such as yourself.”

 

“You dare-”

 

“I didn’t know what reason she had. But then I met Prestor Hux.”

 

The Commandant fell quiet, and Prestor felt Bren shift next to him.

 

“I can see her so clearly,” Luke said quietly. “The civil war was all but over, her rebellion nearly wiped out. She was ready, I think, to go on fighting to her very last breath. Her life would have ended in fire, taking as many Imperial soldiers with her as she could manage, her final stand the kind of story they tell in legends.

 

“But then she found out about the little life she carried with her, beneath her heart. She went on waging her war as long as she could, but the father was lost, she thought, in battle, and she was living on the run, always hiding, never knowing which morning would be her last. Even if she lived long enough to bring him into the world, how could she damn her child to such an existence as this? Hunted down to be slaughtered like animals… So it was that the Graveyard Princess of Alderaan finally surrendered, lay down her weapons and alliances she had fought so hard for, agreed to a marriage, one where her child could grow with something almost resembling peace…”

 

Bren’s hand settled on Prestor’s shoulder. He could feel himself shaking in the touch, and noticed tears dripping from his chin.

 

“You were given something precious to protect, and you crushed it beneath your boot like it meant nothing. _That_ is why, Commandant Hux, your death will not be swift.”

 

Luke turned and spoke into a comm. “Captain, who you kindly come and remove him, now? In the west parlor.” He must have let go of the Commandant, letting him stand and raise his modified blaster cane. Prestor felt Bren startle, almost call out, but Prestor already knew how this was going to play out. The Commandant fired a single bolt at Luke, aimed right for his head as he was turned away. Luke didn’t flinch. He barely even moved his hand to flick aside the bolt like a blade of grass had been tossed at him. It burned its way an inch into the transparisteel window before fizzling out.

 

“Thank you again, Captain.” Luke turned back to the Commandant, who was now pale as death. “It’s terribly rude to fire at someone like that, Commandant.”

 

“What…” The Commandant shook himself. “What are you?”

 

Luke shrugged. “A nobleman with a little too much time on his hands. Nothing else matters.”

 

Prestor felt Bren tug at his hand. “Pres,” he whispered. “Come on.”

 

Still shaking and trying to wipe away his tears, Prestor followed his brother out of the room.

 

Bren walked quickly, his stride long, and Prestor found himself almost jogging through the wide hallways to keep up. He certainly couldn’t keep up with Bren’s thoughts, racing as they were, examining every possible scenario in a flash and sorting through all of them to find the best one, far faster than Prestor could follow.

 

“Stop trying to listen in, Pres. You’re distracting me.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Prestor drew a deep breath. “I can fake it for a little while.”

 

“Good. That’s all I need.”

 

Bren walked into the grand ballroom with an air and voice that immediately commanded the focus of the room. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a lofty smile and words that carried. “I have an announcement to make that I have no doubt will be of interest to any reporters, journalists, or archivists here tonight. If you wish to hear first-hand, I will be at the front entrance of the estate. Thank you.”

 

He turned and continued on his new trajectory. “Pres,” he said. “Can you let Naberrie know to have the troopers bring the Commandant around to the front entrance?”

 

Prestor flicked the thought in Luke’s direction and got an affirmative response. “Done,” he said. “What are you-”

 

“Quiet. Stand just behind my shoulder and don’t look surprised at anything… and don’t say anything.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Prestor snapped back sarcastically. To his delight, Bren glanced back at him, affection and a surprising amount of lust darting across the gap between them.

 

They walked through the open doorway onto the threshold of the manor. The garden was brightly lit from the windows and spotlights, the walkway lined with little lights that changed colors. Bren walked several steps down the walkway, then turned to face the entrance. The light pouring from the doors and windows illuminated him perfectly, and Prestor felt a little awkward as he stepped over several flowers to take up the position Bren had told him to.

 

Bren threw an image at him, mentally shouting across the short distance between them. The image was of Prestor at his graduation, just a short while in the past, but also a lifetime ago. Prestor had looked tall and proud, his shoulders straight and his eyes burning with a fervor that ignited something matching in Bren. _Just do that. You’re fine as you are, Pres._

 

Several curious guests gathered at the doorway, and once there were at least three that Pres could see with holo-recorders, Bren cleared his throat and settled his stance into parade rest, his hands at the small of his back and his posture regal.  More people accumulated as he spoke.

 

“Gathered guests, I thank you all for attending this celebration. Tonight, we honor the past that has brought us here, and we look forward with anticipation to our glorious future. No doubt most of you have heard the rumors, and I would like to confirm them, now. It was Emperor Palpatine’s wish that I ascend to the galactic throne upon his passing, and two days from now I will be crowned Emperor Hux.”

 

There was a commotion, noise rising from behind Prestor. Bren didn’t react at all, but Prestor couldn’t help but turn to look. Several stormtroopers were hauling the Commandant towards a speeder. He looked undone, his hair wild and his eyes wide, his teeth bared in a snarl. His eyes were focused on Bren.

 

“Bren!” he called out, but his son gave no response.

 

“The Empire is great, mighty, and powerful,” Bren continued. “But the Empire is only as great as it is weak. That is why there will be no place for corruption under my rule. Anywhere it is found, it will be snuffed out.”

 

“Bren!” The Commandant’s voice was growing frantic. “What!? Bren… you… what do you think you are doing!? Command them to release me!”

 

Bren’s smile inched closer to an outright sneer. “Commandant,” he said without turning to look, his voice cutting through the night. “Who do you think dug up the evidence of your crimes in the first place?”

 

The Commandant fell silent as Bren turned slightly towards Luke, who had drifted into view through the gardens. “Count Naberrie,” he said lightly. “Thank you for your assistance in this endeavor. It is most appreciated.”

 

Without missing a beat, Luke swept a slightly embellished bow. “My Lord Prince,” he said. “I am honored and humbled to be of service to my future Emperor.”

  
Bren nodded in acknowledgement. “Let all the galaxy know.” He spoke is if the stars themselves were bending close, listening. “The Empire is only as noble and worthy as its capacity to safeguard and aid even the smallest and seemingly insignificant life from needless harm. Corruption and immorality are weaknesses that will not be tolerated, not at any level. My people-” Bren hesitated, his voice growing softer. He lifted his hand to his heart. “My people, as you are to be my subjects, I am to be your Emperor. I swear… I swear that I will never be content, never feel that my actions are enough. I will _always_ strive to improve, refine, and better the Empire. Not just for the strong, the rich, the powerful and well-connected. My people are also the small, the young, the ones in need, and they have just as much claim on my heart, if not more. If anyone, or anything, ever threatens what is mine, be it stars or armies or even the mighty Commandant of Arkanis himself… I will not permit it to remain unafraid and unassailed in _my Empire_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guard them,  
> Watch them,  
> Protect them.  
> My dear friend,  
> You are their sentinel and defender.  
> Without you, the House of Paper Bones would fall.


	11. The Stars As No One Else Has Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To you, of ten thousand years.
> 
>  
> 
> Hey there, Major character Death warning tag! We meet again!
> 
> Another warning for this chapter: Mind Rape. Emphasis on the second word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the child of war.  
> I found these paper bones upon the battlefield.  
> I gathered them in my wounded hands  
> And restored them with my tears.  
> Every drop of love in my fragile body was poured into the paper bones,  
> And they will belong to my children and my children’s children.

Bren was shaking when they finally got away from the crowd and closed the door, leaving just Bren, Prestor, Cedes and Count Naberrie. He was shaking with _rage_ , a rage that he didn't know where to direct, how to handle.

 

“I think that went rather well,” the Count said quietly.

 

“Don’t,” Bren snarled, trying to hold onto as much calm as he could, but the evening had been long and he had started unraveling at least two hours ago.

 

“I was just going to congratulate you on your ability to think on your feet like that. You’d make an excellent leader in any capacity.”

 

Bren really didn’t want to hear it. “I just took the responsibility for sending the Commandant to prison in order to push a political agenda. That is not something worthy of congratulations, Count Naberrie.” Anger and frustration were rolling through Bren. None of this should have happened. The timing was terrible, too. Couldn’t the Count have done this earlier? Before Emperor Palpatine died? Before Bren had to deal with a galaxy of problems, but none so important as the one in the corner, quiet and trying to hide the fact that he was crying again. Pres shouldn’t have had to find things out this way. Damn the Count...

 

“Be careful, young one,” the Count said, his voice quiet and his blue eyes too sharp. “Don’t pick up the weapon with which you were wounded.”

 

Bren bristled. “I am not wounded,” he snapped. “I’m furious! Things never should have happened like this…”

 

“Boys,” Cedes said quietly. “Bren. Will you take Prestor home? The Count and I… need to talk. It might take some time, so the two of you should go try to get some sleep.”

 

“But Cedes-”

 

“Bren,” she said, her voice going uncharacteristically towards pleading. “Take care of your brother?” Pres had dried his face, but his eyes were still red-rimmed and shiny, his jaw set as if daring the universe to throw something at him he could fight with his own hands. As much as Bren hated letting Cedes manipulate him so easily, she was also right. Pres needed to get home, and there was no way Bren was going to leave him alone in such an emotional state.

 

“Fine,” Bren snapped, and then whirled on the Count. “You and I are not finished, Count. I won’t forget this.”

 

“I would be disappointed if you did,” said the Count before sweeping a low bow. “Your Highness, thank you for your attendance this evening. I look forward to seeing you again.”

 

“Likewise. Pres… Pres?” Bren had to call his name twice to get Prestor to look at him. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

 

Pres only nodded, and Bren tried not to show how much that worried him, only adding more fuel to his fury. He all but dragged his brother out of the estate, ignoring the startled servants on the way. They were both silent the entire ride back to the penthouse, Bren stewing in his emotions. None of it showing on his face, of course. Nothing was really showing on Prestor’s face, either. For a moment, Bren wished he could read his brother’s mind.

 

The droids beeped a welcome as they walked in the door, but it was far too late at night and they were both far too absorbed in their thoughts to do anything other than make their way to their room and start getting ready for bed.

 

The silence was starting to grate on Bren. This wasn’t how Pres was supposed to handle things. It was supposed to be _him_ flying off the handle and yelling at people, not Bren. He wondered if this was something Pres had picked up at the Academy or in his, what was it, Force training. Or if this was a one-time thing. Bren turned to see Pres sitting on his bed, staring down at his hands.

 

“You’re sulking,” Bren said quietly.

 

“Am not,” huffed Prestor.

 

“That’s the first you’ve spoken in over an hour,” Bren pointed out. “I know why _I’m_ upset, but I’m curious if you’re mad at the world in general or if there’s something specific.”

 

Pres sighed, and Bren had to put effort into not sighing with him. “We… we’re not real brothers.”

 

Bren broke into a startled laugh. “Really? Pres…” He smiled at Prestor, and there was suddenly something bright in the room and in Bren’s head. “You honestly didn’t know? You thought we were half-brothers and you kissed me? That’s pretty gross, Pres.”

 

Prestor’s face turned bright red. If the lights were off he’d probably be glowing with embarrassment. “Shut up.”

 

Bren sat on the bed next to Prestor. “I guess I’ve just known for such a long time, it was funny to me that you didn’t know.” He ran his thumb over Prestor’s knuckles. “When I was ten, I broke into the Commandant’s office, just to see if I could. And then I went through all of his files he keeps locked away in there, because I was a nosy brat.” A sigh escaped him. “I found his secret files and hacked into them, read through the medical records he never wanted anyone to ever see. Early in his military service, the Commandant was accidentally exposed to some radiation that damaged his genetic code. He could get most of the effects treated, but after that… He was never going to be able to have children of his own. Not in the normal way, at least. Apparently he paid the scientists of Kamino a very large amount of money to have me… put together.” Bren made himself smile at Prestor, trying not to get too lost in those eyes of his. “There was no way you were his son, either. If it were up to me, you would have known years ago, but Cedes asked me not to say anything.”

 

The corner of Prestor’s mouth trembled into a smile. “She has a very strong way of asking.”

 

Bren couldn’t help but reach out to touch that smile with his fingertips. Pres never used to smile so much, when they were younger. Bren never wanted to take it for granted.

 

_What are you looking at?_

 

The telepathy thing was definitely still weird. Bren wasn’t sure how long it was going to take him to adjust, but twenty-nine hours was apparently not enough. Still. Bren Hux considered himself nothing if not adaptable.

 

Pres snorted. “Bren, you are the most stubborn, rigid person I know. Well, actually, I take that-”

 

Bren leaned forward and kissed Prestor, stopping the stumbling words. He could feel Pres all but melt into the touch, his mouth already open and eager. Bren figured he might as well oblige.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Prestor sat upon the throne, his heart and eyes cold as he stared down at the man kneeling before him._

 

_“Your Majesty,” begged General Biggs. “Emperor Hux, please… have mercy…”_

 

_“Silence,” said Prestor, and the disgraced General obeyed. Prestor felt nothing. There was no anger or contempt towards this man. Nothing lived in Prestor's heart anymore. “General, your actions led to the death of my brother, and for that, there can be no mercy.” The Emperor turned to his Knight. “Kill him.”_

 

_Luke smiled. “Gladly.”_

 

_“Try not to get too much blood on the floor,” said the Speaker. “I approve of intimidation, but we don't need such a display for the audience with the Ambassador of Yavin, after this.”_

 

_“That’s one of the best things about lightsabers, Cedes.” Luke flicked his on, the green light casting his face with ghoulish shadows. “Very little clean-up.”_

 

Prestor didn’t cry or scream himself awake, but it was a very near thing. He opened his eyes in thin grey dawn light and felt his eyelashes brush against Bren’s cheek. A sigh poured out of him, relief and lingering grief. He’d hoped the dreams were gone for good, but it seemed they’d only been delayed. With a small frown, Prestor eased himself just a little closer to Bren. Maybe if his arms were a little stronger, maybe if their legs were tangled a bit more…

 

Bren groaned. “Pres, stop moving. I’m not ready to wake up.”

 

 _Me neither,_ Prestor whispered into his brother’s mind. _Can we just stay here all day?_

 

“M’fine with that. Coronation’s not til tomorrow.”

 

Bren’s datapad dinged with an incoming message. They both groaned.

 

“Look at what you did, Pres,” Bren grumbled as he reached out from under the covers to feel along the floor for the datapad.

 

“I didn’t do anything.”

 

“You summoned it with your brain.”

 

“That’s not how the Force works.” Prestor hesitated. “I think.”

 

Bren propped the datapad on Prestor’s face so he could open the message. Pres pretended he could fall back asleep like that. Bren made a small gagging sound. “How very thoughtful. A schedule for all of the meetings I need to be at today. No. I don’t need to be at that one. I really don’t care what color my cape is. Do I even need a cape? I just want to wear my dress blacks. And I don’t care what tune the trumpeters play. Why the hell are there going to be trumpeters…”

 

Prestor giggled.

 

“I don’t see what you’re laughing at,” said Bren. “You’re coming with me to all of these.”

 

“What?”

 

Prestor’s datapad beeped the receival of a message. “That’s your copy of the schedule,” Bren said.

 

Prestor growled and pushed the pad away from his face. “Aren’t there people to do all of that for you?” He pressed his face into Bren’s neck, mouthing and licking at the hollow of his throat. “We should just… stay here…”

 

Bren shivered and tangled his fingers in Prestor’s hair. “You make a compelling argument.”

 

Prestor grinned and nipped at the wonderful bruise on Bren’s neck.

 

There was a knock on the door, startling both of them out from under the covers and scrambling for clothing. “Bren? Pres?” Cedes called through the door. “You should both eat breakfast before we go to the palace.”

 

“Thank you, Cedes,” Bren said while tugging pants onto his legs as fast as he could. Which was very fast, Prestor noted. It must be part of being in the military.

 

“And boys? Next time, lock the door.”

 

They both froze. “Thank you, mother,” said Prestor tightly. She didn’t bother responding. And thus began the second most uncomfortable breakfast in Prestor’s life.

 

However, the meetings throughout the morning were looking to be even more uncomfortable. Pres was still frowning down at his datapad as the three of them made their way up the steps and into the halls of the palace.

 

“Stop whining,” said Bren. “Sitting through a few meetings won’t kill you. You’re such a baby, Pres.”

 

_That’s not what you said last night._

 

The back of Bren’s neck went red, but he didn’t say anything.

 

 _Really? I’m right here, Pres._ Cedes whispered in his mind. _I appreciate the attempt at discretion, but I can, in fact, still hear you when we’re this close._

 

Prestor could feel his whole face and his ears blushing. _Oh._

 

Cedes gave a small sigh. _I suppose that if your worst sin in life is loving your brother a little more than most people, I really shouldn’t complain. You could have turned out far worse._

 

_You have dreams, too?_

 

His mother was quiet for a moment. _No, but… I have seen what can become of people like us._

 

 _Like Count Naberrie?_ asked Prestor. _Like Darth Vader?_

 

Cedes didn’t answer. _Keep your guard up in this place, Ben. The… Force… is strong here._

 

The first meeting was fairly small. In a bright room with a circle of chairs, there were only four people waiting for them. The Speaker, the Knight, a tall woman with white hair and a square face, and a sharp-looking man with black hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache.

 

“General Biggs,” Bren greeted the man. “And Ambassador Tarkin. It’s good to see both of you.” He turned to the General. “I thought the _Finalizer_ wouldn’t make it to Coruscant for another two weeks.”

 

_Hello, spirit._

 

Prestor nodded slowly towards Darth Vader. _Hello, grandfather._

 

“Well, plans change,” said General Biggs. The General was apprehensive, Prestor realized. He had almost all of his body language under control, but he was all but leaking the feeling into the air. Prestor could almost taste it, sour and unpleasant. Blood in the water. Apprehensive was the wrong word, actually. It wasn’t strong enough. The General felt like he was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

 

“Shall we get started?” said Bren. “Everyone, sit down, if you would.”

 

Bren sat and everyone else arranged themselves around him. Much to Prestor’s surprise, although he really shouldn’t have been, Vader and the Speaker sat at Bren’s right and left hands before Pres could claim a chair near Bren for himself; they were accustomed to their places near the Emperor, it seemed. The thought of Darth Vader sitting during a small meeting was a bit silly to Prestor, but the man still managed to loom, his shadow taking up far more room than anyone else’s. Cedes sat at Vader’s right, another surprise, so Prestor awkwardly folded himself in the chair next to hers. General Biggs was next to the Speaker, and Ambassador Tarkin next to the General, across from Prestor. She immediately pulled out a datapad and started typing out notes.

 

“Your Highness,” the Speaker began. The title suited him. “Our first concern is the matter of who you wish to name as your Right and Left Hands, your Knight and Speaker, your Enforcer and Voice. You may name any sentient to either position, although I recommend choosing two people you can trust, or at least rely on to some degree.” The Speaker smiled. “Lord Vader and I would be honored to continue in our roles, either permanently or temporarily, until you decide upon our replacements. However, we would also be agreeable to immediately beginning training replacements. There is, once again, no precedent to follow. To be honest, you needn’t even keep the positions as they are, although I can think of a few persons who would be a bit disappointed if you chose that path.”

 

The man paused in his speech. Prestor figured it was to take a breath or two. “If I may be so bold,” he continued, just a little slower. “I have a request to make.”

 

Bren hesitated only a fraction of a second. “I will hear your request.”

 

“Thank you, your Highness. The… _popular opinion_ seems to be that you will choose your brother to serve as your Knight and Right Hand, and possibly your mother to stand as your Speaker. My request…” His smile wavered, though Prestor wasn’t sure why. “Is that you consider the reverse. Have Lord Vader teach the Knight-Duchess and allow me to train young Prestor to be your Left Hand.”

 

Prestor felt for a moment like someone had punched him in the stomach. “Speaker, I really must object,” said General Biggs, a muscle in his cheek starting to twitch. “Lady Hux has no combat training, no formal military education. You cannot expect the Imperial Navy to follow the command of such a woman! And a seventeen-year-old child as Speaker?”

 

The Speaker grinned at the General. “General Biggs, you are, I think, a little bit blind to reality. Knight-Duchess Hux has more than adequate experience in military leadership. She has played at politics and other things for a small amount of time, but her true nature is ill-concealed from those willing to look. As for young Prestor…”

 

_The power you wield is intoxicating._

 

“I believe he has a great deal of untapped potential. Perhaps we could call it a _gift_ for… uncovering truths.” His eyes met Prestor’s, and Prestor recalculated how many force-users were in the room.

 

“What is your game, Snoke?” Cedes bit the words out of her mouth.

 

“I play no game,” the Speaker said. “I only wish for all options to be considered, particularly ones that I think will be most beneficial to the Empire.”

 

“Snoke,” said Vader. “This is not what we talked about.”

 

“As the good General said earlier, plans change.”

 

With a fluid movement, Bren stood. Prestor nearly beamed with pride. His brother could already silence a room with nothing but the way he stood, confident and strong. “The final decision rests with me, General Biggs,” he said. “Your input on the matter has been heard but not appreciated.”

 

“You insolent whelp,” Biggs said with a grimace. “You will lead the Empire to ruin!”

 

Bren did nothing but quirk an eyebrow. “General Biggs,” he said. “How could I possibly lead _anything_ to ruin with your example to guide me?”

 

Prestor felt the subtle jab, and so did Biggs. He fell silent, his face still twitching a bit.

 

Bren looked over at Prestor. “Pres?” he said. “Do you have anything to say on the matter?” _Can you tell what’s going on?_

 

 _See? Already he relies on you, not for your sword, but for your mind._ The Speaker’s whisper was like a caress, or a reassurance.

 

Prestor took a deep breath and lifted his head to meet Bren’s gaze. “You already know,” he said. “I would follow you beyond the edges of the galaxy. I am yours to command.” He told himself to think. He had to think, remember. _In all of my dreams, I was never your Speaker. I don’t know what will happen. But every dream where I was your Knight ended in blood._

 

“Very well,” said Bren. “Then I choose for there to be a trial period. Let’s say… one month. Speaker, you will work with Prestor, training him to serve as my Left Hand. Lord Vader, you will teach Cedes Hux. I anticipate that you will have your hands full. If, after that time, anyone has any objections to the arrangement, I will reconsider.”

 

Ambassador Tarkin leaned forward in her seat. “Your Highness,” she said, but Prestor stopped listening. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

 

“Prestor,” said Bren. “If you’re going to be in charge of intelligence, perhaps you should pay attention to what people are saying.”

 

But Prestor felt the affection Bren had for him from across the room. Prestor smiled. “As you command, Your Highness.”

 

The meeting didn’t last for terribly long after that. There was little else to discuss beyond logistics of what Bren wanted to accomplish. Prestor dutifully paid attention to what was being said both out loud and in the minds of those around him. Ambassador Tarkin was ruthlessly straightforward, refreshingly only concerned with the ripples Bren would make in the Empire and how she could turn them to her advantage. She harbored no real ill intent.

 

General Biggs remained mostly quiet, his anxiety and growing terror confusing and out of place. Prestor couldn’t tell what was affecting the General so drastically. This was an entirely different man than the one Prestor had spoken to just a short while before graduation. Biggs was twitchy and paranoid, inches from running screaming from the room. Prestor was actually rather impressed that the man was keeping himself so composed outwardly, compared to the state of his emotions.

 

Cedes was like a fire, her emotions burning like a welder’s torch, hot, blinding, and precise. She wanted desperately to have more information, but she found herself off-balance, just as she always did when she came to the palace. It frustrated her to no end.

 

Darth Vader was darkness, a deep well of black water and melancholy.

 

The Speaker was nothing. A mirror and air.

 

Bren was a sun.

 

As the meeting dispersed, the Speaker bowed to Bren. “Thank you, Your Highness, for hearing my request. I think things will turn out very well.”

 

“Of course, Speaker.”

 

The Speaker turned to Prestor. “If you have some time, I would like to speak with you in private. Just to discuss some of what will be expected of you.”

 

“I, um,” Prestor looked at Bren. “Do you need me for the next meeting?”

 

Bren stared at Prestor for a moment. “You’re going to leave me with Cedes to choose what I’m wearing tomorrow?” He shook his head sadly. “I thought I could trust you, Prestor. I will never forget this betrayal.”

 

Prestor grinned. “After you you, Speaker.”

 

_Spirit…_

 

Prestor turned back to Darth Vader, but the Knight said nothing else, only stood like a statue of black stone. So Prestor left the room side-by-side with the Speaker, and tried to ignore how Vader had sounded like he was saying goodbye.

 

For once, the Speaker was quiet as he led Prestor down a hall to a room with no keypad on the door, only a manual handle. Prestor stepped through the door behind the Speaker, who set the lights to fifty percent. There was very little in the room, only a thick rug and two chairs facing each other.

 

“Please, have a seat, Prestor.”

 

“Thank you,” said Prestor, and chose the chair on the left. “I was surprised, Speaker, when you asked to train me.”

 

The Speaker seated himself as well, now facing Prestor directly. Prestor found it oddly difficult to maintain eye contact with the man for very long. “May I ask why you were so surprised?”

 

Prestor frowned slightly. The Speaker was watching him with a neutral expression, but there was a sense of intent hanging in the air. It almost felt like bloodlust. Regrouping his thoughts, Prestor thought over the question. He wasn’t often given to introspection, but he tried anyway.

 

“I suppose,” he said slowly. “It might be because I… have very rarely felt _wanted_ in my life. I didn’t feel like anyone wants me to be the Emperor’s Knight, not really. I’m just convenient for the job. No one wanted me to succeed at the Academy. My father never wanted me. Even…” Prestor had to clear his throat. “Even my mother… I’ve never felt like she really wanted me. I just sort of… happened to her. She loves me, but she didn’t want me.”

 

The Speaker gave Prestor a sympathetic look. “There is no need to feel unwanted, Prestor. I’ve looked forward to this day for a very long time. I could hear you in the stars many years ago.”

 

Prestor gave a wry smile. “I’ve been told I’m pretty loud. You… you are so quiet, though. I didn’t even notice you could…” Prestor waved his hands in front of him. “Use the Force.”

 

“Luckily for you, stealth is something that can be taught,” said the Speaker. “If I may, I would like to see how much you already know, what you can do. Where we should start.”

 

“Oh, yes.” said Prestor. “I’ve been-”

 

“Actually,” the Speaker interrupted him. “Given our time constraint, perhaps we could forego words.” He raised a hand, stretched out towards Prestor as if reaching for his thoughts. “I figure that this way we can have you back with your brother faster.”

 

“Right,” said Prestor. “That would probably be a good idea.” He shifted in his seat. “Do I… I’ve never done this exactly, before.”

 

“That’s quite alright,” said the Speaker. “You can just-”

 

_Bren, standing barefoot on the beach, hands on his hips, his head tipped back to smile into the gathering dusk._

 

Prestor flinched, and rearranged his mental walls. He could feel his face warm with embarrassment. “That…” he said. “Sorry. That’s… private.”

 

“Ah,” said the Speaker. “Here. Let me try again.”

 

Prestor could feel the Speaker’s mind like tree roots threading their way into his head.

 

_Four moons in Bren’s hand, the skin raised and raw. Prestor laid a kiss on each one._

 

Prestor frowned. “This isn’t-”

 

The Speaker’s mind slammed against Prestor’s, grasping and shredding. Prestor shouted in surprise and pain, but the sound stopped in his throat, choking him.

 

_Bren pressed against him, skin to skin, the taste of each other mingling on their tongues. His breaths broke apart into tiny whimpering sobs of relief and joy and tenderness. Bren’s hands felt so good…_

 

“Stop!” Prestor cried. “That’s mine! You’re not supposed to-”

 

“Quiet, boy.” With ravenous talons and fangs, the Speaker clawed at Prestor’s wavering mental walls, shadowy tendrils seeking out weak points and wrenching them open with Force, like cold fingers groping through all of his most intimate memories. Prestor tried to move, tried to stand, to scream… anything… but he could barely even keep breathing…

 

_The air was cold. Prestor struggled for air; everything hurt so much. His right arm wasn’t obeying him, and he could feel blood leaking from his side into the snow. A whimper escaped him, a sad broken sound that couldn’t even begin to hold his pain._

 

_“I’m sorry.”_

 

_His mouth formed the words, but he couldn’t hear them. He was too quiet, the planet collapsing beneath him too loud. Tears may have fallen, but he couldn’t feel them. His face was numbed from overwhelming pain and cold. But he could still feel the memory of a gentle touch to his cheek._

 

_Prestor knew he was dying. He was weak, and what he had done had only made him weaker. This death… he deserved this._

 

_He just wished he wasn’t so alone._

 

_“Don’t you dare die on me, Ren.”_

 

_Prestor felt a warmth he never thought he would feel again. He knew that voice so well Hux-General-Bren-Mine…_

 

“Stop,” whispered Prestor. He could feel something wet dripping from his chin. There was no way he could tell if it was tears or blood. Still, the violation continued.

 

“Hmm,” said the Speaker, tilting his head as if examining a stubborn stain in the carpet. “Let’s try…”

 

_“I will kill you,” said the man made of darkness. “Because it is demanded of me.” Prestor screamed as Vader’s lightsaber carved through his ribs. It cut through him, charring his organs and leaving his insides hollow with agony. “You may not believe this, but this hurts me as much as it hurts you.”_

 

Prestor couldn’t breathe. The pain in his skull was radiating down, tangling around his spine and through his guts. “Please… stop…” But the physical pain barely registered over the torture in his mind.

 

_He ran his hands across a wall, the rough stone catching and tearing at his skin. Something crawled out of the darkness to rend his flesh with tattered teeth. Bren held down his wrists, his grip bruising as he tore into Prestor’s body. “Mine…”_

 

“No…” His voice was only a wounded whimper. “Please stop…”

 

_The throne was cold and dead, the crown crushed his head, and the cheering crowd lifting their hands and voices towards him. He tried to open his mouth, to beg them for help, but only blood came out to spill over his hands and legs._

 

“So powerful,” the Speaker said, as if commenting on the weather. “This wouldn’t hurt if you would just stop… fighting…”

 

_The fire was eating him, licking away skin, muscle, tendons. It chewed his bones into ash. He screamed at the stars, begged the eyes watching from there to reach down to save him, but none of them even blinked. They didn’t care._

 

Prestor wondered if he was screaming out loud, or only in his head.

 

_Through wide windows, he watched streaks of scarlet fire scream across space to land with a dreadful reckoning on peaceful worlds. He felt all of them die, so he ran a matching burning through his heart to quiet the torment._

  
  
  
  
  


_And in that quiet, he was lost._

  
  


_He couldn’t find the way back._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  


Han Solo wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing at the Imperial Palace. When he asked Luke, the only response he got was “there is a disturbance in the Force”. Luke was lucky he was so pretty. Han had barely even entered atmo when Luke had commed him, his voice tight with something that in anyone else Han would have called ‘worry’, but from Luke was more like ‘impending violence’.

 

Getting into the palace wasn’t very difficult. Han had long ago figured out that if you wear a nice shirt, hold a datapad very conspicuously, and walk with confidence, no one will bother you much about where you are going. The only problem was that Han had no _idea_ where he was going. Just… towards a ‘disturbance in the Force’. Thanks, Luke.

 

_Actually… turn right, here._

 

Han had been with Luke long enough that he didn’t even question the whisper in his mind. When Luke had one of his moments of intuition, it always worked out well if Han did what he said. Even if it didn’t always work out the way he would have thought.

 

Down a long hallway towards a window, then left, then left again.

 

_Stop._

 

Han nodded to a passing woman in fancy clothes. She looked shocked and offended that he had dared notice her. He tapped at his datapad.

 

_What next, Luke?_

 

_Look at the door to your right._

 

Han did as instructed. There was nothing particularly unusual about the door. There wasn’t even any kind of lock or entry keypad on it.

 

_Han, are you armed?_

 

_Who the hell do you think I am? Of course I'm armed._

 

_Good. Open the door, but be very careful._

 

_Why? What's on the other side?_

 

_I have no idea. I can’t see the room at all through the Force. I can only see the door because you are looking at it._

 

Well, damn. On Han’s list of weird shit he’d had to deal with, this didn’t even crack the top ten, but it made all the hair on his arms stand up nonetheless. He wished he could have snuck Chewie in with him, but a seven-odd-foot tall walking carpet was far from inconspicuous.

 

“Alright,” he said to himself. “This can’t possibly be worse than Hoth. There’s probably no Tauntauns.”

 

Cheered by the thought, Han made himself open the door and step into the room.

 

The room was small, and there was nothing but two chairs facing each other, and two people in those chairs. A man in long purple robes with a nasty scar and cold eyes rose from his chair and nearly snarled at Han. “Who are you?” Even his voice was cold, icy with anger.

 

“Pardon me,” said Han. “Wrong room.” But of course it wasn’t the wrong room. There in the other chair was the kid Luke had been training, Prestor. He didn’t move a single muscle.

 

“Very wrong room,” said the cold man. “Leave.”

 

The kid hadn't even turned his head towards Han, hadn't even blinked. “Kid?” said Han. “Are you alright?”

 

“He’s fine,” said the cold man. “But you are intruding here. Leave or I will make you leave.”

 

Han smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

 

The man flicked a hand in dismissal. “You will leave this room and forget what you have seen here.”

 

But halfway through his sentence, Han saw the kid move. His head turned to Han, his eyes full of something he hadn’t seen in a long time, not since Luke stopped having those terrifying daytime nightmares where he thought he was still in prison. Suffering. On a scale only a Force user could experience. The kid’s mouth was trying to form words.

 

_help me help me help me_

 

“That infernal Jedi,” spat the cold man. “Fine. If I can’t persuade you-”

 

Han had never been the kind of person to hesitate in a crisis, and he really didn’t feel like listening to the cold man’s voice any longer. He’d once been known for being something of a quick draw. Han shot first. Even superhuman reflexes couldn’t save someone from an attack they never saw coming, and apparently the cold man was too distracted or arrogant to see Han reach for his blaster holstered at the small of his back.

 

Han drew, fired, and had the blaster put back away before the cold man’s body hit the ground. The kid collapsed as well, toppling sideways out of the chair like a puppet with the strings cut.

 

Han took a deep breath and let it out. “Hells,” he breathed. “What was that all about, kid?”

 

The kid didn’t respond. He didn’t move. He wasn’t even breathing.

 

“Kid?” whispered Han. “Prestor?” He took a shaky couple of steps and knelt next to the kid. “Ben?” Han heard something small in his own voice. “Come on, kid…”

 

Reaching out, Han set a few fingers on Ben’s neck, trying to find a pulse, or hear a breath, or… Ben looked so pale, his eyes closed. He looked like he was sleeping, far more at peace than any other time Han had set eyes on him.

 

“Don’t do this, Ben,” Han whispered. He’d been fighting it back, trying to distance himself from the thoughts about what Luke had told him a week ago, but now they came surging forward, tearing through Han’s chest with claws of fire and ice. The truth was right in front of him, plain as day in Ben’s face. There were his own features, softened by youth and a beautiful mother. But the kid’s skin was growing colder under Han’s touch.

 

“No. No, no, no, no…” Han pulled Ben closer, holding his limp form against his heart, as if he could share the heartbeat from his own chest, or give his life over to the boy in his arms. “Please don’t do this to me, Ben.”

 

The color was fading out of Han’s life, out of Ben’s skin. It was seeping away too fast, and try as Han might, he couldn’t stop it or bring it back.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Han heard his own words thick with the threat of something like tears breaking through. “I’m such an idiot. I should have been…”

 

The door swished open, the sound quiet but jarring. Han looked up to see his Princess. Time had changed her, sharpened her, but she was still there.

 

“Leia…” Han said, the name cracking through the wall he was trying to hide an overwhelming grief behind. He had to be brave. He had to be.

 

“I couldn’t see him,” she said softly, her eyes on her son. “But then I felt him and…” She barely seemed to notice Han.

 

“I’m sorry, Leia,” Han said. “I-”

 

“Don’t,” she said carefully, slowly sinking to her knees on the floor. “Don’t say anything, Han Solo. Your problem was never knowing when to not say anything.” Her words were cutting, but there were tears spilling down her face as she cradled Ben’s face in her hands, her fingers brushing against Han’s.

 

She was right. She was always right, and that always drove Han mad. What could he say? What words were there for this? The two of them, finally touching again at last, _at last…_ over the body of their son. What words were there? Han could only watch in silence, words and things he could never say seeping from the new hole in his heart.

 

“Pres?” Leia whispered, tears dripping from the tip of her nose as she bowed her head. “Ben… my baby, please wake up…”

 

Han clenched his teeth together. He knew… he knew Ben was gone already. When you had been on as many battlefields as Han Solo had, you could feel death. Leia shuddered and bit her own lip to keep her tears from falling too fast. She was whispering something, pieces of words that Han couldn’t quite hear, but could have been either a prayer or a lullaby.

 

Finally, Han found the words he needed to say. He let his thumb run along Ben’s jaw, holding him like the most precious treasure in the galaxy.

 

“I’d have given my life for you.”

 

Han heard a rustle of fabric and a heavy thud of a footstep. He looked up to see that Leia had left the door open, and silhouetted there now was a looming dark shadow of a man. He said nothing, only breathed. Loud and mechanical.

 

Leia’s shoulders hunched, and her face twisted with grief. “Go away,” she whispered. “You’re not wanted here.”

 

“I know,” said Darth Vader, but he walked into the room anyway. Han trembled. He was about as Force-sensitive as a brick wall, but even he could feel the dark of Vader’s presence. It suffocated, though you could still breathe. It burned, though you shivered. It deafened, though you could still hear. Leia curled protectively over Ben even as Vader came to ever so slowly kneel at his head.

 

“Go away,” Leia cried. “Leave us!”

 

“My Lady,” Vader said. “I have failed you more than you know. Let me do this one thing for you.”

 

“What,” Leia's voice was trying to be flat and failing. “What _thing_ could you possibly do for me?”

 

Darth Vader's terrible, heavy breathing shuddered through the room. Darkness fell over them like a shroud. “I dreamed of this. This is the reason…” he said slowly, reverently. “The reason I fell to the Dark, all those years ago.” He reached out and set a hand on Ben’s head.

 

“What reason?” Cedes demanded, her entire body shaking and tears streaming down her face.

 

Darth Vader didn't answer. In fact, Han realized that the horrible, heavy, slow breaths had stopped.

  
Under his hands, there was the smallest motion, the pull of air into lungs that had halted several minutes before. Han felt his son breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my own strength and care,  
> I built the House of Paper Bones.  
> And while it looks delicate  
> It will stand for eternities.


	12. Endgame: Long Live The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go on, pretending that it's possible for stories like ours to have happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look upon the House I have built,  
> Crawling Darkness,  
> And be afraid of what it means for you.  
> You will never have another paper-boned child to consume.  
> I will not let you.  
> Not ever again.  
> I have won.

He gazed out over an emerald lake under a deep sapphire sky. The city across the lake was every color imaginable, and several that weren’t, with yellow-blue spires and graceful violet-green bridges like lace suspended between. Above, he could see the milky spiral arm of the galaxy stretching across the impossible sky, neither day nor night. He looked down at the sand beneath his feet. It glimmered like stars.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

He looked up and smiled at her, his protector and friend. “I…” He felt his smile fade from his face. “Not really. I wasn’t finished.”

 

Her smile held sorrow, as well. “I know, dear one,” she said. “I’m sorry. I failed you.”

 

He held out a hand, and she took his hand in both of her own. “Please don’t cry,” he said, but it was too late. She already had tears coursing down her cheeks. He never knew what to do when the people around him cried. “You haven’t failed.” Somehow, deep in his soul, he knew. It felt like all truth was open to him, now. “It’s going to be alright, grandmother,” he said. “I’m here, now. And I’m ready.”

 

“Spirit, wait…”

 

Ben saw Padmé’s eyes grow wide. A hope she had long ago buried was blooming again in a summer sun. They both turned to face the man who had spoken.

 

He was stumbling, reaching out as if he were still in darkness. There was very little left of him, crumbling black ash in the shape of a man was all that remained, but as Ben watched, he could see the pieces and dust reforming, coming back together slowly.

 

“Ani?” whispered Padmé, her voice a soft, fluttery thing. Ben tightened his grip in reassurance, and then let go, so she could walk up to the man, both of them transfixed by the sight of the other. “What…”

 

Even faceless, his features still rebuilding themselves, the man managed to look a bit ashamed of himself. “Sorry it took me so long. But I’m here, now, Padmé.”

 

His voice was different, softer, more like Ben remembered from his visions of a younger Anakin Skywalker. Tears threatened to fall from Padmé’s eyes.

 

“I… I’d given up hoping,” she said, her words soft and giving away that her hope had been resurrected. “But… you’re here? With me?”

 

“I had only one purpose left,” Anakin said, and then turned his head towards Ben. “My guardian spirit… You saved me. You  _ will _ save me. The Force works in very mysterious ways.” The blue returned to his eyes. “And I’ve repaid the favor as best I could. Live.”

 

Ben opened his eyes and for a brief moment was very worried about the fact that he was blind and couldn’t move.

 

He quickly realized, however, that the lighting in his room was just very dim, and there were three reasons he couldn’t move.

 

Cedes was sound asleep on his left, curled up against his side, her face against his shoulder and her hand on his chest, just over his heart. Rey had cuddled up under his right arm, her own arms wrapped around his waist as she snored very softly and drooled onto his shirt. Bren had somehow wedged himself between Rey and the wall, his head on the pillow so his nose was stuck in Ben’s hair, his fingers curled possessively around Ben’s right hand, clutching it close to his own heart.

 

It wasn’t how Ben usually woke up, but he decided he really didn’t want to disturb them, so he settled back to just enjoy the warmth and love he felt from them.

 

However, the door very quietly swung open, and a furtive figure made his best attempt at sneaking into the room. “Oh,” the figure whispered. “You’re awake.”

 

Ben swallowed. His mouth was dry. “My head hurts,” he whispered back.

 

Han Solo crept a little closer to the bed, shifting his weight around, running his hand through his hair, and generally looking very uncomfortable. “Honestly, it’s pretty miraculous that you still have a head. Don’t do that again, kid. I’m convinced I lost ten years off my lifespan after all this.” He fell silent, and then grimaced. “Ah, hell, I always say the wrong things…”

 

“So do I,” Ben murmured, and found himself unable to keep looking at the man. His gaze flickered to the ceiling and the far wall.

 

Ben knew the truth, now. He knew it in the marrow of his bones. He looked down at Rey, still not quite able to look at Han Solo while he spoke. “Rey calls you ‘Papa’,” he said softly. He felt his mouth tremble, but he forbade himself to cry. “Is… is it alright if I do, too?”

 

There was no response for a moment, and with some alarm Ben looked back to search Han’s face. The man’s eyes were wide with something that Ben had no name for. It might have been joy.

 

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, that’d be alright.” He smiled. “What should I call you?”

 

Ben hesitated and looked over at his brother. It would be kind of weird if there were a Bren  _ and _ a Ben. Mother really should have thought his name through better. “My family calls me Pres.”

 

“Pres it is, then.”

 

With a small sigh, Prestor settled back into his bed, wrapped up in people that loved him. It was… a pretty nice feeling. Even if his left leg was starting to fall asleep and Bren’s breathing was tickling at his neck and his shirt was starting to feel rather damp where Rey was drooling on him.

 

A thought wouldn’t leave him, though. He remembered. Prestor swallowed and opened his mouth to speak again. “You saved me.”

 

Han’s eyebrows raised. “I…”

 

“I remember,” Prestor continued talking over what might have been said. “I asked you to help me, and you did.” That memory, at least, was very clear. “Although… that might have been a dream. Sometimes I can’t tell when I’m dreaming.”

 

Han watched him for a moment more. “You’ve been asleep for a long time, but you’re probably still tired, aren’t you?”

 

Prestor nodded. “But-”

 

“It’s alright, Pres. I’m staying. And I won’t let anything happen.” He grinned and tipped his head towards the other bed in the room. “Luke’s here, too, sleeping. The whole damn family. We’ll be here when you wake up again.”

 

_ Prestor stood, immovable and in control, keeping his glee as hidden as he could, where he belonged at Bren’s left hand. Cedes stood on the other side of the throne, her expression calm and collected, her new veils rendering her even more intimidating than before, her eyes gleaming as she slid her hands along her new lightsaber staff. Carefully disguised as an ornamental staff of office, of course. _

 

_ “You can both calm down,” murmured Bren, just loud enough for his Hands to hear. “Honestly. Skywalkers are so dramatic.” _

 

_ Of course, the real commotion in the large room was approaching down the long aisle, twitching, his eyes darting from side to side as if seeking an escape. The disgraced General had at least three days of scruff on his face, and alternated between dragging his feet and nearly wrenching himself away from the stormtroopers marching him along. _

 

_ “General Lizhin Biggs,” Bren said. Prestor shivered a little. He loved it when Bren used his Emperor voice. “You are to be executed for the war crimes you committed on the peaceful systems of Manakron, Betthanie, and Balmorra.” _

 

_ Biggs spat at Bren, and Cedes tightened her grip on her staff. “You spineless bastard! You can’t kill me for those missions! They were by order of Emperor Palpatine!” _

 

_ Bren smiled without mirth. “You seem to be under the impression that I give a damn what Palpatine ordered.” Bren flexed his left hand. Biggs had given the order that helped put those four moons where Bren could never forget them. And now he would pay. “Your execution awaits. Unless, by some miracle, someone here wishes to speak on your behalf.” _

 

_ The massive room was deadly silent. Bren smirked. “You seem to have made very few friends-” _

 

_ “I’ll speak for him.” _

 

_ Every head in the room turned to face the man who had spoken, slim and polished, well-dressed with an air of unshakable dignity as he walked over to stand near Biggs. _

 

_ The former General stared at the man, his mouth slightly agape. After a few stunned seconds, he managed to speak. “Wh-who are you?” _

 

_ “Me? Oh, it’s been ages since last we spoke. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. My name is Count Yshaal’ya Naberrie of Kwilaan.” _

 

_ The smile on Luke’s face morphed from haughty nobleman to ghastly and wild. “However, my friends call me Luke Skywalker.” _

 

_ Prestor watched as the expression on Biggs’ face melted from confusion into understanding, anger, and terror. “Luke…” _

 

_ “Your Imperial Majesty,” Luke said. “I have only one request about this man’s fate, and then I will never think about him again for the rest of my life.” He looked up at Bren. “I want him to live a very, very long time, and to come to truly understand the pain his crimes have caused.” _

 

_ Bren’s smile was cold. “I will grant your request, Count Naberrie.” _

 

_ “Thank you, Emperor.” _

 

The day of Bren’s coronation dawned bright and clear, the city near the Palace waking quickly and with a readiness that made Prestor’s head hurt. Of course, it could have just been that his head hurt.

 

“It doesn’t have to be today,” Bren said, his thumb brushing the back of Prestor’s knuckles in a tender caress that surprised both of them more than it should have. “We can postpone the ceremony.”

 

Cedes, Rey, and Luke had all risen, and could be heard eating breakfast in the other room through the open door. Prestor heard Han laugh at something Rey presumably did. Bren had refused to move yet, clinging to Prestor like he would never get another chance.

 

“No,” Prestor said. “I feel fine, Bren, really. Well… fine enough. I can stand there for a while. I don’t have to do or say anything, do I?”

 

“No. In fact,  _ please _ don’t do or say anything.”

 

Prestor snuggled closer to his brother, enjoying the contact. A little hesitant, he reached out with his thoughts to touch Bren’s.

 

Bren hadn’t told him anything, but Prestor saw it there in his mind, the blind terror he’d felt when he’d seen Prestor lying there, unmoving, almost lifeless in the arms of a stranger who looked almost worse than Bren felt. Prestor had died. He had  _ died. _ Bren had nearly lost him forever.

 

“Not forever.”

 

Bren’s brow furrowed. “What?”

 

Prestor smiled, even though it felt a little wispier and teary than normal. More vulnerable. “I’ve got a good look at what comes next, Bren. There’s no way I’m going anywhere without you. If I die before you, I’ll be waiting for you to join me. We can cross the lake together, walk into the city side by side.”

 

Bren stared at him helplessly for a moment. Prestor was afraid that he’d said the wrong thing again, but then Bren pulled him close, buried his face in Prestor’s chest and began crying. Prestor wrapped his arms around him as tight as he could, holding his brother as his body shook with sobs.

 

“If I,” Bren gulped. “Look all puffy-eyed and gross in holos today, it’s  _ your fault, _ you  _ jerk. _ ”

 

Luckily, though, by the time they reached the Palace, Bren looked as perfectly composed as ever. Prestor was glad. Bren was his, and only he could could see Bren cry.

 

Everything moved very quickly, once the Hux family was all in place. The ceremony began right on time, everything immaculate, very solemn and serious and, if Prestor was perfectly honest, a little boring. He stood on the left side of the throne, Cedes on the right.

 

Leaning over, Prestor whispered to her. “You look beautiful, mother.”

 

“Thank you, Pres,” she whispered back.  _ Next time, can you just say it in your mind when we’re in public? _

 

_ What would be the fun in that? _

 

With a trumpeted fanfare, the far doors opened, and Bren Hux walked into the room.

 

Prestor couldn’t quite hold back a smile from his face. Bren looked magnificent. Cedes had talked him into a cape after all, white to match the military-esque jacket he wore, the lining in gold. A little giddy, Pres had the thought that this was like a wedding, with Bren walking down the aisle towards him.

 

Bren’s expression didn’t  _ quite  _ change when Prestor sent that thought to him, but it was a close call.

 

A sensation like rippling water washed over Prestor, the Force agitated around him as Bren took his place, standing in front of the throne before the assembled masses of spectators. Holovids of this day would be broadcast all across the galaxy. This event would be recorded and archived, preserved for future generations to witness. Prestor felt all of their eyes on him at once. He wondered what they saw when they looked at him. Some politician stepped forward and was speaking to the crowd, but Prestor didn’t pay attention to what the man was saying, all flowery nonsense about what a good Emperor Bren would be.

 

_ Security will be tight, but a Mandalorian friend of mine says there’s a building near the palace. _

 

Prestor tensed. The words of that dream came back to him. Poe Dameron, talking to Mitaka about the coronation, talking about… about killing Bren.

 

His breathing sped up. Was that dream real? All of his dreams felt so real; it was difficult to tell.

 

_ It’d be tricky, but a really good marksman could make the shot from there… _

 

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Prestor sent out his mind, fluttering through the crowd as fast as he could, trying to find the danger he could feel closing in.

 

Wait. Dameron had said it was a building near the palace. Prestor nearly threw his mind outside. He’d never tried to send his thoughts so far so fast, searching desperately. If only he’d heard more, could pinpoint the location of the building, it would help him narrow down his search.

 

Something wavered in the Force like a distant landmark wavered in the heat of a sun. Where? There!

 

The squeeze of small muscles, the twitch of a finger on a trigger… Prestor tried to move, tried to react fast enough, but he was

 

_ Too slow! _

 

He heard the zap of the blaster bolt slicing through the air, the window. He smelled the ozone, the burning. The charring of flesh.

 

Prestor heard his brother fall to his knees before he could react, before he could turn, look, see. With a clawing, choking pain in his chest and throat, he finally could move enough to kneel, to gather Bren in his arms, still not really seeing.

 

“Pres…”

 

That was the last word, and only blood came from Bren’s lips after. It might as well have been an eternity that passed while Prestor trailed his fingers over his brother’s face, until Bren’s eyes went empty. All the air in Prestor’s lungs threatened to drown him when he felt Bren’s mind fade, the last faint impression a feeling of cold fear mixed with sorrow at leaving behind his Pres.

 

_ Under the reign of Emperor Prestor Hux, the Galactic Empire fell into darkness. He ruled with a will of cold metal and ruthlessness, never wavering in his quest to solidify his hold on power, to expand his grasp into the Outer Reaches. Millions suffered from stifling trade restrictions, heavy taxation and the demands of the military. _

 

_ Until finally, one day, a young woman, hardly more than a girl, walked towards the wide windows where the Emperor stood looking out over the city of Coruscant. _

 

_ “Do you remember,” said the Emperor. “The first time we met? You asked what took me so long…” He turned to face her. “I can finally return the question.” _

 

_ Rey hesitated for a moment, but she let the Force carry her forward. Ben still looked so young, like he’d hardly aged since she last saw him… at least on the surface. She could see, however, how the Dark Side was beginning to eat away at him, decay devouring him from the inside out. His eyes gleamed with an inhuman gold. They matched the circlet on his head. _

 

_ “Your hair is longer, little sister.” _

 

_ “Don’t call me that,” Rey said, trying to hold on to her calm with her fingertips. “Yours is longer, too.” _

 

_ Ben actually smiled at that. The sight of that smile cut through her heart with a razor’s precision. “Please,” he said softly, and then stopped. She felt his mind stutter in itself. He hadn’t meant to say that, and now wasn’t sure what he had been going to say. Was he going to ask her not to fight him? Or… to end his life quickly? _

 

_ He sighed and looked away. “You’ve always gotten into my mind so easily, past every defense…” _

 

_ His heart heavy, he reached for his belt, for his lightsaber. Maybe… Maybe this was for the best. Either he would destroy her and the last ties he had to his past, along with the only real threat to his power, or… _

 

_ Or she would send him to where he could finally see his brother again. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ No. _

 

_ The House of Paper Bones shall not fall! _

 

_ Faster! Ben, you have to move faster! _

 

The coronation ceremony was droning on forever. Maybe if it took longer, Prestor could move quick enough. But there still wasn’t enough time! Frantic, he sent his mind out through the city, skimming over buildings and the souls of sentients, security, civilians, simple people and strange. He could find the marksman this time, he knew it, deep in himself.

 

There! A tall spire, balcony ledge, long rifle, sprawled body, deep breath,  _ pull the trigger- _

 

Prestor forced his body to move. He tried to pull up the Force fast enough to stop the blaster fire, but he was still

 

_ Too slow! _

 

He felt the bolt strike him, burning a path through his skull and brain, spraying a terrible mess all over Bren’s pristine white coronation clothes. There was no pain. Not like the last time he died.

 

_ Emperor Brendol Hux lived a long life. However, forty years after he ascended the throne his Empire collapsed, worn away by fringe rebellions and rampant corruption that he tried and failed to control. The last of his life was spent in exile on a small planet near Naboo. Alone, the long years of his life dwindled away in a gilded cage full of emptiness and echoes of what could have been. _

 

_ Bren heard footsteps on the grass, and looked up from the tiny new flowers. He was there, more radiant than even Bren’s memory had been able to preserve. Dark hair and laughing brown eyes. Prestor met his brother’s smile with one of his own. _

 

_ Bren stood, feeling new strength as the burdens of his life melted away. “What took you so long?” he asked, not meaning to sound like he was about to cry, but sometimes life and death were like that. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ I will not accept this future. _

 

_ The House of Paper Bones will stand forever. _

 

Fast enough.

 

Prestor turned his head to look out the window. It took several lifetimes, but at  _ last _ he was fast enough. He couldn’t see the marksman, but he could feel where he was, nanoseconds from firing. That was all Prestor needed. He focused. Calm. Control. Perfect. He smiled, and as the bolt zipped through the air, he reached out with the Force to hold it in place.

 

It took the marksman a few seconds to realize what was happening, and then a few more seconds to process and realize that he wasn’t hallucinating. His aim had been accurate, but looking up from the rifle sights he could see his shot hovering only a few feet away, suspended and shimmering in the bright sunlight. Prestor gave him a few moments to consider his demise, and then flicked the bolt back the way it had come, through the barrel of the rifle, into the body of the marksman.

 

By inches, Prestor came back into his own head, in his own time, in the right place, at his brother’s side. Briefly, Bren glanced over at him. Prestor anchored himself to the fondness in Bren’s eyes. It had taken him several lifetimes, but at last he’d made it. They were here, together, as they should be. The two of them could go forward into the future.

 

The corner of Bren’s mouth lifted slightly, and Prestor resolved not to ask if Bren remembered dying as many times as Prestor did. “What took you so long?” whispered Bren.

  
“Sorry,” Prestor whispered back. “I’m here, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is never a happy ending, because nothing ever ends.


	13. The House Of Paper Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought I tore up those paper bones of mine, but I see you went and built a house of them.

 

 

 

 

My name is Luke. I am the child of sky.

My bones are made of paper

To better help me fly.

But someone found my paper bones

And tore them up

Their fingers cruel and jealous.

I don’t think I will ever fly again.

 

Little one who walks in the sky,

I have found your paper bones.

I will mend them with careful touches

And build a house of them.

 

*

 

My name is Leia. I am the child of secrets

I am well acquainted with grief. I have eaten nothing but sorrow and drunk nothing but pain.

I had many dreams once, but they are scattered on the wind, now. Along with my paper bones.

 

Speak your secrets, sweet one.

Your paper bones are not lost.

They are only hidden.

Hidden for so long you forgot they were ever yours.

But you still have them.

Will you wake them up?

 

*

 

My name is Han. I am the child of night.

I found these paper bones, but I did not know the worth of what they were.

In my ignorance, I treated them poorly.

I… regret.

I would tear out my own bones to set right what I made wrong.

 

I believe you.

The House of Paper Bones has many rooms.

A place can be found for you.

 

*

 

My name is Prestor. I am the child of swords.

No one told me I had paper bones.

How could I have known?

With my own blade

I cut right through them

Shredding them.

They bled all over my hands

But no one helped me.

No one came.

Must I try to heal them on my own?

 

You were wronged, child,

But you are far from alone.

Hold out your hand.

Open your eyes.

I am here.

 

*

 

My name is Anakin. I am the child of ash.

A long time ago, in a place far away, I had beautiful paper bones.

They burned long ago

With the rest of me.

 

I tried to save the remnants of your paper bones,

But you let a demon lick up the ashes.

There’s nothing more I can do, beloved.

I miss you.

 

*

 

I am the Commandant. I am the child of iron.

I was given paper bones, a treasure I didn’t deserve.

I crushed them in the teeth of my metal-mind.

 

You were granted paper bones to protect

And instead you bruised and broke them.

Do you feel the weight of your sins?

They are crawling on your back.

 

*

 

My name is Rey. I am the child of morning.

I love my paper bones. The light can shine through them, soft and loving.

Free and wild and cherished, the wind holds me up

So that I can dance without fear

Across the sky.

 

Sunshine girl,

You are blessed beyond measure.

And you will fill the House of Paper Bones with endless laughter and joy.

 

*

 

My name is Shmi. I am the child of dust.

My bones were made of paper but no one noticed me. They looked right through my paper bones and did not see them. Now my bones are lost forever

Below the wilderness.

 

No. They are not lost. I found them. And your child’s child’s child will live forever in the House of Paper Bones.

 

*

 

My name is Bren. I am the child of rust.

I inherited the crumbling remains of what came before and was told I should be grateful to have so much.

So I set the rotting crown on my head

Abandoned

And begged for someone to look beneath the wreckage and see that

Far beneath the decay there is still something worth saving.

I am not ruined.

I am ruination.

 

You do not yet have paper bones,

But that can change quickly,

Like a sudden shift in the wind.

Be ready to shake off the rust of your ancestors.

 

*

 

My name is Obi-Wan. I am the child of light.

I wished for paper bones, but the truth had far too much weight. Nothing I did was enough. I could not turn my bones to paper, no matter how hard I tried, hoped, pretended, prayed. So I despaired. And hid myself away.

But there was a miracle.

I turned into light.

Now I can wrap myself around the House of Paper Bones and protect them forever.

 

Guard them,

Watch them,

Protect them.

My dear friend,

You are their sentinel and defender.

Without you, the House of Paper Bones would fall.

 

*

 

My name is Padmé. I am the child of war.

I found these paper bones upon the battlefield.

I gathered them in my wounded hands

And restored them with my tears.

Every drop of love in my fragile body was poured into the paper bones,

And they will belong to my children and my children’s children.

 

With my own strength and care,

I built the House of Paper Bones.

And while it looks delicate

It will stand for eternities.

 

*

 

Look upon the House I have built,

Crawling Darkness,

And be afraid of what it means for you.

You will never have another paper-boned child to consume.

I will not let you.

Not ever again.

I have won.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

  


**Links, Titles, Names, and Navajo Translations**

  


**Chapter 1 - Prelude to a Nightmare**

 

[ Biggs ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Biggs_Darklighter)

[ Imperial Academy ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Imperial_Academy)

  


**Chapter 2 - Don’t Start the War Without Me**

 

[ Prestor ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bail_Prestor_Organa)

[ The Battle of Yavin ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Battle_of_Yavin)

[ Commandant Brendol Hux ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Brendol_Hux)

_Kai - willow tree_

_Nahaltin - rainstorm_

Cedes - shortened form of the name Mercedes meaning Mercy and Grace. Also references the latin Caedes meaning Murder. Also references [ Darth Caedus ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Darth_Caedus) from Star Wars Legends.

  


**Chapter 3 - We Disappoint We Disappear We Die But We Don’t**

(Title is from the _Into the Woods_ lyrics from the song “No More”, which was not in the Disney movie rendition because there was no narrator character. The lyric is a riddle posed by the old man to the baker, and the answer is never explicitly stated in the show, but the answer is “fathers” or “like father, like son”, as understood in the context of the lyrics. I thought it was appropriate for the chapter.)

 

The Planet [ Kuat ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kuat)

_Gáa’gii - crow_

  


**Chapter 4 - I Had Strange Heroes As A Child**

(Title is reworded from the lyrics to Delta Rae’s song “Is There Anyone Out There?” which has become my go-to song for Ben Solo. The actual lyric is “All my heroes, they were strange”.)

 

 _Yshaal’ya - very badly mangled English approximation of “I am walking-sky”_ _Yishaał: I am walking, Ya: sky_

[ Naberrie ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Naberrie_family)

[ Kwilaan ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kwilaan_\(city\))

[ The gom jabbar scene ](https://youtu.be/VKQMWZHiQVQ)

_Diniih nabóhonitaah - pain/ache/suffering experiment_

_Ch’ínádzííd - wake up_

[ The death-sticks scene ](https://youtu.be/G1EkOsY8p_8)

  


**Chapter 5 - Red and Black and Red and Black**

(Title refers to the order the Hux family stood for their audience with the Emperor. Yeah, Cedes and Prestor are brunette, they don’t have black hair, but I figured this title was more poetic and gave less away than “Ginger and Brunette and Ginger and Brunette”.)

 

_Yiska - the night has passed_

[ Imperial Palace, former Jedi Temple ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Imperial_Palace) (Of particular interest is how the old Jedi Temple was built on top of an old Sith Temple in an attempt to contain the Dark Force energy emanating from the place.)

  


**Chapter 6 -** [ **A Ship of Fools** ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ship_of_fools)

  


**Chapter 8 -** [ **My Swordhand is Singing** ](http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1840934.My_Swordhand_is_Singing)

(My favorite scary book ever. Gave me chills, and actually made me jump in my chair at one point, it scared me so bad. Plus, the title is freaking awesome.)

 

[ The Crypt ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/The_Crypt_\(prison\)) in the [ Anoat System ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Anoat_system)

  


**Chapter 9 - In My Left Hand I Hold Four Red Moons pt. II**

 

[ Standard Calendar ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Galactic_Standard_Calendar)

_Lizhin - object that is black in color_

[ _Datoo_ ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Datoo) _\- dew, dewdrop_ (double dip! Both Navajo _and_ a canon character!)

[ Level 3204 ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Level_3204) (The level of Coruscant where pretty much all of the remaining Alderaan people live.)

  


**Chapter 10 - The Towers I Watched When I Was Young**

(Title is another lyrics from Delta Rae’s “Is There Anyone Out There?”. The full line is “The towers I watched when I was young are not as tall as I once believed.” Very appropriate for this chapter.)

 

[ Raynar Thul ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Raynar_Thul)

[ Zekk ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Zekk) _Sizineel - one who was standing_

[ Santigo Milon ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Santigo_Milon)

  


**Chapter 11 - The Stars As No One Else Has Them**

“All men have stars, but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems... But all these stars are silent.  You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh! And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me... You will always be my friend...I shall not leave you.”

― [ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1020792.Antoine_de_Saint_Exup_ry) , [ The Little Prince ](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2180358)

 

 **Chapter 12 - Endgame** : **Long Live The King**

 

[ Manakron ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Manakron_system)

[ Betthanie ](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Betthanie_system)

[ Balmorra](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Balmorra_system)

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Artwork**

 

**Fanart:**

[Cedes Hux](https://xn3city.tumblr.com/post/147592577100/cedes-hux-huxs-mother-in-ofcorsetstrashs) by [xn3city](xn3city.tumblr.com)

 

Mine:

[Sol et Lun](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/142989408809/ofcorsetstrash-sol-et-lun-the-house-of-paper)

[Brigadier-General Brendol Hux Jr](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/143497877684/disney-prince-hux-brigadier-general-brendol-hux)

[The Hux Family](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/142755096079/the-hux-family)

[The Naberrie Family](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/143246431479/spoilers-the-naberrie-family-the-house-of-paper)

[Cedes Aesthetic](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/143356933109/i-want-a-girl-with-a-mind-like-a-diamond-and-a)

[The House of Paper Bones Aesthetic](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/143045669529/kylux-aesthetic-the-house-of-paper-bones-for)

Didn't make it into the actual story but here's [Cedes' lightsaber](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/142747082284/someone-send-help-i-have-a-problem-this-is-getting)

[Sketch: Cedes and Prestor](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/142417965589/the-knight-duchess-cedes-hux-accompanied-by-her)

My geeky essay on [How the Force Works](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/142968032169/thats-not-how-the-force-works) (particularly how I make it work in HoPB)

[Reasons to read The House of Paper Bones](http://ofcorsetstrash.tumblr.com/post/143458091279/reasons-to-read-the-house-of-paper-bones)

 

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr URL is ofcorsetstrash and you can find all my art stuff for this story under the tag "my fic: hopb"
> 
> Chapter 12 is nowhere near polished enough for my personal standards, but I couldn't bear to look at it any more. It's the shortest chapter and took me by far the longest to write. I promise I'll be back to edit it better in a couple of weeks. (I won't go and change the ending or anything. The end is what it is. I just need to smooth it out.)


End file.
